A Different Kind of Science- Johnlock
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: Sequel to "A Different Kind of Fall," a Mystrade fic, this story will follow John and Sherlock as they find their way back to one another in the aftermath of Sherlock's return. It's set six months after, and there is no Mary. Just two men with communication issues and lots of love for each other. I OWN NOTHING.
1. Savin' Me

**A/N: Hello there! I was reluctant to end A Different Kind of Fall, and so I decided to go write a sequel based around Johnlock, so I could revisit my favorite pairing and also provide a happy ending to one of the angstiest romances ever. I went with a different sort of theme for this one, and if you followed my last story, you know that I updated daily. I have a pretty busy schedule over the next little while, so I won't make any promises, but I will try to post every other day. **

**The theme here is songs. It's not a song fic, in that I'm not using the lyrics mixed in with the story, but the titular song kind of drives the chapter, so if you know the song, you'll recognize elements of it in the chapter, if I've done this well. The song for this chapter is "Savin' Me" by Nickelback, and now I'll quit annoying you with my blabbing: enjoy, and do let me know what you think!**

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Sherlock was having a nightmare. This was not unusual. He'd been experiencing nightmares since he'd come back to London, back to Baker Street, back to _John_ with alarming regularity, until he'd lost track of the nights when his sleep had been even more disturbed than usual. Even a genius couldn't run on no sleep at all, so he was forced to occasionally try, though he knew how it would end.

Tonight, he couldn't simply rip himself from the nightmare. He was far too tired, and anyway, this nightmare was one he was familiar enough with that he was pretty sure he could keep himself from screaming out loud when he woke. He was in his room, alone at Baker Street, and John had left after punching him. That much of the dream was true; it was a memory, and the rage and pain on John's face were burned into his mind. He frequently saw this when he closed his eyes, whether awake or asleep.

The room was suffocating him. There was no air, no light, and he reached into the darkness for the competent hands of the doctor, hands which would never touch his again. He knew that, but it didn't stop him from reaching out, crawling toward the door with tears in his eyes before the dream warped, and he found himself on the roof of St. Bart's.

The last time he'd been here in real life, he'd not been on his knees, but on his feet, and he'd been on the ledge, looking down at John. No sooner had the memory crossed his mind than he was exactly where he'd been, looking at his flat mate and so much more, though he couldn't admit it to anyone, especially said flat mate. John's expression this time, however, was not fear or shock or pain. This was not a John who would scream and mourn for him. The look on his face was cruel, a cutting smile, one that dared him to jump. No one would care, after all.

Sherlock looked skyward, searching for answers from the stars. That was strange; it was daytime in the real world when he'd done this, not night. But that was not the only strange thing. Black wings burst from his back, and he cried out from the pain as they grew from his spine, searing pain giving way to a strange sense of power as they finally stopped shredding his skin and spread for the first time. It burned, but the feeling wasn't completely uncomfortable. And he felt stronger.

"I'm coming to you this time, John. I won't leave you behind again," he murmured to the figure on the ground, even as he spread wing and dove… and kept falling, even when he tried to pull up. He panicked, then, eyes wide as he crashed hard into the ground, feeling bones snap and blood spray from thousands of gashes, as if he'd fallen through several panes of glass on the way down instead of simply crashing into pavement.

And his wings, the wings John had given him the strength to grow, were bent and twisted, broken beyond repair, feathers scattered everywhere as the fine bones and muscles, far too weak to fly without help, so soon, sent pangs of agony through his bleeding body.

John was standing above him, nudging at his abdomen with a booted foot. There was no sorrow on his face, and he wasn't pleading for Sherlock to stay with him. There was contempt in his eyes, instead, and he sneered as he looked at the fallen consulting detective.

"I tried to be more, for you, John…" Sherlock murmured, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth from a puncture in his heart caused by a broken rib. He could feel all the pain, every last bit of it, and wasn't sure how he wasn't dead. Oh, right, it's a dream. And this dream doesn't let you die until the end. Sherlock bit his lip and struggled against the blackness at the corners of his vision, even as he prepared himself for the words that would break him all over again.

"Who would want you, Sherlock? Who would want someone so broken? You can't even manage on your own. I couldn't carry you all your life. Besides, you always claimed you never needed anyone. Can you blame me if I believed you? I moved on, Sherlock. And you? You're pathetic, a shadow of the man you think you are. Pathetic." John spat on him then, and then that boot came down over his heart, and Sherlock screamed… and screamed…

And screamed as he sat bold upright in his bed, chest heaving, lungs struggling for oxygen that he sucked in greedily, noisily, trying to calm himself down.

Sherlock only slept when he knew John and Mrs. Hudson would be away; at least, those were the only times he slept in his own bed. He normally chose the hours when John was at the surgery and Mrs. Hudson was out on errands, or getting tea with Mrs. Turner. He'd contemplated wearing a gag to sleep, but had discarded the idea on the basis that it would, undoubtedly, only make the nightmares worse.

Steadying himself carefully with one shaky hand on the nightstand, then the wall, Sherlock moved purposefully through the house to the loo, so he could shower away the sweat. Maybe the water could drown out the screams still echoing in his head.

Fortunately, John only came home after he was finished with the shower and dressed, but the dream was lingering very much on the consulting detective's mind as John handed him a cup of tea and sat in his chair, picking up a book someone from the surgery—_Sarah_, Sherlock's mind provided, judging by the cover and quality—and beginning to read.

It wasn't that John had been extremely cold since Sherlock's return or anything, exactly. In fact, it had been several months, and they'd gotten back into something like their old routine. Except John always stood a little further away these days, wasn't as free with his praise, and was not always available to take cases.

And the _women_. Oh, the inane, brainless, boring women he brought home. One of the many reasons Sherlock hadn't slept at night in months was the fact that John brought home all sorts of women, and unlike Sherlock, he wasn't courteous enough to muffle the screams or confine them to the times when they would not bother the other. Judging by the low hum he was emitting this afternoon, he would be bringing one of them home with him that night.

Unable to take it any longer, Sherlock jumped to his feet, threw on his jacket and scarf, and left without another word, taking to the streets of London as he had so many times these past few months.

John stared at the place he'd vacated on the couch, letting out a sigh. He felt like Sherlock was avoiding being alone with him, even if Sherlock wasn't generally the passive aggressive type. Normally, if something bothered him, he would confront John about it, usually in the rudest way possible.

At least… it had been that way. Before… Before. John never let himself think about the Fall if he could help it, because it had marked the darkest period in his life, but now that Sherlock was back, that should have resolved itself. Instead, it felt like they were dancing around each other, and had been ever since the return.

John knew it was partially his fault. He'd punched Sherlock, when he'd first come back, but after that, they hadn't really discussed it. It was a thing, it had happened, and they'd avoided the topic like the plague. John had gone pulling far more than usual those first few weeks, wanting to avoid Sherlock while he wrapped his head around the fact that he was home. But it occurred to him now, staring at the vacated spot, that he hadn't tapered off.

Had he been making Sherlock uncomfortable, bringing women home and ignoring what had happened? He couldn't blame the consulting detective for being upset with him, really. He'd been a horrible friend lately. There were days he took extra shifts at the surgery simply because he didn't want to go to a crime scene, for fear that they would end up giggling and he would get attached again.

All John had wanted, during the years Sherlock was away, was for him to come back. He'd wanted, against all odds, to be worth returning for. But what had he done when Sherlock had pulled off the miracle he'd prayed for? He'd been acting like he didn't want him home at all, like he'd completely moved on and no longer needed the man he lived with.

Musing over this as he made himself a cuppa, John decided that he would cancel his date that night. And when Sherlock got home, assuming it wasn't too late, they would talk.

Satisfied with this line of thought, and ignoring the tinge that said he wanted to preserve their friendship because he wanted to be _more than friends_ with his mad flat mate, John picked up the novel, a loan from Sarah, and read. He finished it after a few hours, and it was dark. Sighing, he headed up to his room, to hunt up another book and relax in a more soothing environment.

He had nodded off by the time Sherlock returned to the flat, and because there were no signs of life anywhere in the flat, he assumed he was completely alone. Perhaps, he thought wistfully, several hours of walking would have tired him out enough that his body would simply be incapable of dreaming.

_Wrong_.

It was the same dream, and he woke up screaming again, thankful that Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister for the next couple of weeks and that John was out on a date. Except, if John was out on a date, why were there footsteps on the stairs, and why did the doctor burst into his room, gun in hand, looking around anxiously.

"What is it, Sherlock?" He gasped, fumbling for the light switch. He found it after a few seconds, and relaxed when he didn't see anything but Sherlock, safe in his own bed. But then something gave him pause, and he scanned his flat mate again, realizing he looked… terrified.

"Did something happen?" John pressed, and Sherlock turned away, still trying to breathe. He had been avoiding this for months, but exhaustion had caught up with him, and he'd been stupid and careless as a result. Cursing himself for being stupid, and cursing John for having shown up in his moment of weakness, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to draw on the years of pretending to be a sociopath, simply because the world held too much when he let himself hope.

"No. I'm fine. Go back to your girlfriend." The words were spiked with bitter anger, and Sherlock flopped over and turned his back on John, making it clear that he very much did not want to talk. John froze in the doorway. On the one hand, it was Sherlock's right to block him out, after he'd spent so many months doing the exact same thing to him. On the other hand, this was _not_ what he wanted them to become—strangers who shared a flat, an occupation, and nothing else—and he had wanted to talk to Sherlock that night.

"There is no girlfriend. Not tonight. I called and cancelled. I thought you might like to talk, but I must have dozed off upstairs…" John stared at the Sherlock-shaped lump that had burrowed beneath the covers, so much so that only his curls were visible. Once again ignoring the compulsion to walk over and tangle his fingers in that hair, John instead took a seat on the edge of the bed, trying not to be hurt by the way Sherlock stiffened, and then froze completely when he put his hand on his arm.

Wondering if he'd managed to somehow offend Sherlock, who tended to shy away from all physical contact unless it was with a corpse or otherwise for a case, John pulled back reluctantly, a little confused when Sherlock didn't seem to relax even a little bit after the contact finished.

"I'm sorry if I've been weird, Sherlock. Really. I want us to be friends, still." John said, biting his lip against the urge to explain that he actually wanted more. No, that was a _really bad idea_ if he planned to get them back on track. Even Sherlock, who had really awful social skills, would be a little put off by John hitting on him when they were trying to get their equilibrium back. Hell, it would probably _never_ be okay—he remembered what he'd said their first time at Angelo's, when he'd summarily shut him down. Sherlock had no interest in relationships. Right.

Swallowing, John rose, ignoring the part of him that was screaming to stay, to comfort Sherlock. Realizing there was nothing else he could do there that night, he headed back to his own room, deciding to try and sleep.

Sherlock lay there in the darkness, eyes closed tight, and tried to relax his suddenly tense muscles. For a moment there, he'd felt almost like he was back in the dream, and John's gentle hand had suddenly turned into something threatening. Sherlock knew how agitating he was; he'd feared that John would lose his temper after having cancelled his date to talk to Sherlock, no matter how ridiculous that fear was, and that he would strike him, as he had occasionally done in the dreams. He was now well-acquainted with pain, after having been beaten up, shot at, and sliced into many times during his time away. It was just another reason John couldn't see him vulnerable, no matter how much he wanted to be able to trust him.

He hadn't realized he was crying until he felt the wetness on his pillow when he nuzzled closer into it, trying to pretend that John's strong arms were holding him close, that everything was okay, when he was sure it wasn't. Tears continued to leak from his eyes as he prayed for an end to the darkness, prayed to be saved from the nightmares, and hoped that somehow, someday, he might feel worthy of being back, might feel worthy of John's friendship again.

He needed to hold onto the hope, no matter how farfetched that hope was. It was the only saving grace he had, when the nightmares were only a moment away.


	2. Maps

**A/N: Okay, this chapter is based of Maps, by Maroon 5. It's basically the boys starting to work through their crap and actually get to know one another again. Enjoy, and do let me know what you think!**

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John closed his eyes and flopped back on his bed with frustration. His mind had been churning for the past week, and there was no one he could talk to about it. Sure, he could call Greg, but the man was still on his honeymoon for another week, and that meant that John's surprisingly short list of friends was down to one, for the next week.

And the last thing he was going to do was talk about his feelings with the man who was tangled up in the center of all of them.

At the moment, John's mind was going back over the period of time between the Fall and the return. He was hoping, somehow, that if he could somehow come to terms with everything that had happened, he might be able to work his way past things. But he kept hitting a stone wall, the same question swirling through his head.

_Why wouldn't you let me be there when you needed me so badly?_ Sherlock had lied to John, yes, but what John couldn't get over was that, for all the times they'd had each other's backs, why had the younger man not trusted him with that, too? John had spent more than one night on his knees asking why, and never figured out an answer.

They'd run the streets of London together for a not insignificant length of time, John always just one step behind Sherlock and chasing him, always following him wherever he went. John had been there for him through it all, but Sherlock had left him here, and he still had no idea why. He'd not allowed him to explain, in all that time. He'd said that it was enough that he was back, but he realized now that they both knew it wasn't. It was not, by any means, their only issue, but he felt like they needed to at least start trying to work their way through it all.

John missed running through London, missed all the long talks that had meant the world to him, missed everything about the life they'd lived. And tonight, when he heard the strains of the violin coming from one floor down, he realized that he was ready to reclaim it. He needed to get past the fear, and be there for Sherlock again, and that meant finally having the conversation they'd put off for months.

Steeling himself, John stood, well aware that he instantly fell into the posture of a soldier. The sweet song Sherlock was playing gave him the strength to go down the stairs and into the kitchen, making tea even though it was past midnight. He had a feeling they were both going to need it.

Sherlock, though admittedly quite curious as to John's behavior, continued to play, careful to choose only those songs which he knew his blogger liked. It wouldn't do to irritate him now, not when he seemed… more open. That was the only thing Sherlock could think. Judging by his posture and behavior, he was obviously preparing himself for something, but it was not a confrontation—or at least, not one he was worried about. That soothed him somewhat; kicking him out of the flat, in the very polite way that would leave no room for argument, was probably not on the agenda, unless he cared so little for his flat mate these days that the idea wasn't all that daunting.

And just because he was open did not mean he was relaxed. Sherlock could see nervousness in the definition of his arm which outstretched to put a cup of tea beside Sherlock's chair before he sat down in his own. Sherlock finished out the song, aware that to not do so would be to reveal his own nerves, and took his seat, letting his gaze study John over the cup of tea.

"You came back for me, after three years." The words were so direct that Sherlock nearly spat out the sip of tea he'd taken, and he swallowed loudly, well aware that his movements, when he set the cup aside, were not half as graceful as normal.

"Yes." John hadn't asked a question, so Sherlock didn't launch into an explanation. There was still a very good chance that he didn't want to know, even now, what had motivated his absence, or his return. And honestly, Sherlock had told himself that it didn't matter if John knew so many times that breaking himself of that belief was going to be hard. He'd tried to explain, and failed so many times that it hadn't seemed worth the effort of trying again, when he was not going to get anywhere.

"Why?"

Now Sherlock was getting a little nervous. Was he going to begin, only to have John hit him again? That was what had happened the first time. The second time had been better. He'd only yelled and disappeared for a weekend at Harry's without so much as an explanation. The time after that, he'd only been gone six hours, and the fourth time had only shut his bedroom door, the click of the lock telling Sherlock he was not welcome inside. That had been the last time he'd attempted this.

Still, John had never actually _asked_ to hear it before. It had been Sherlock who'd felt the need to explain, who'd wanted desperately for John to know he'd never abandoned him, that he'd been saving his life. It had stolen his breath when he'd realized that John truly hadn't wanted to know why, and left him hopeless, anchorless in a sea of misery. Life with John had been paradise, life without him too miserable to think about without making him feel like he was being ripped apart, and life now… well, now he felt this inexorable pull that he had to ignore, if he wanted to be even somewhat happy.

"There were snipers," Sherlock started slowly, "trained on Mrs. Hudson, Gregory, and you. I had planned for the eventuality, so I worked out a plan with Molly, and let Mycroft in on it at the absolute last minute. Neither of them, you see, was being watched by Moriarty, which made them the only ones who could help me without undue risk. In order for the three of you to be safe from the snipers while I dismantled the network and shut them all down, your grief at my loss had to be genuine. It had to look like Mycroft was the one cleaning house in revenge, and we let the snipers believe that they were safe until last, because that was the easiest way to ensure that they didn't get wind that we were picking them off and decide to carry out their missions."

John closed his eyes, and Sherlock quieted abruptly, understanding that the doctor was trying to process the emotions he was feeling. He would probably have questions that covered far more than the information he'd just given him, but even getting those words out had been an unexpected relief. At least now, John would understand that what he'd done, he'd done because he cared. That he hadn't simply walked away because he'd wanted to, but had had no real choice. He hadn't run away; he'd simply been doing the best he could, no matter how hard it was for them all.

A sip of tea later, and John still didn't feel prepared to look at Sherlock. Now, he knew the nightmares he'd had more than one of himself would be colored by fears of what his flat mate had endured in the years after the Fall. It occurred to him that Sherlock had completely quit walking around the flat in just his dressing gown. It wasn't something he'd noticed before, too wrapped up in his own feelings, but now… now, a lump formed in his throat, as he realized he hadn't seen Sherlock in anything but a suit since his return. Except last night…

"You paid for our lives with your own blood. Didn't you?" John's voice was almost unbearably quiet, and Sherlock had to suppress a shiver. He knew where this was going to lead. He did _not_ want John offering to inspect him. He stood abruptly, narrowly avoiding bumping into the coffee table as he made for the door.

Unfortunately, his clumsiness meant he ventured just slightly too close to John, whose hand had darted out to grasp his forearm. His breath hissed out, when he realized he wasn't going to manage to wriggle out of this one.

"Why do this now? Why can't you just leave it alone?" The words were wrenched from Sherlock's heart, and he felt his hand clenching tight in reaction. If he'd been trying not to be vulnerable, he was certainly going about this badly. But what could he say that would stop this before it got started?

"Sherlock, if you got hurt because of me, don't you think I should at least know? Don't you think that we both deserve me to see how much you risked for me?"

Tears stung the backs of his eyes for the second time in several hours, and the words that poured out of his mouth were fueled purely by emotion.

"No, I don't! Go back to not caring, John. It suited you far better than this sudden concern over my well-being. I don't need you to treat me like an infant."

Sherlock yanked his arm away while John stared at him in shock and headed for the door, so many emotions running through him all at once that he was choking on them. This was what he'd always feared—the rest of the world thought him emotionless, a robot, but he knew it wasn't true, and had always been terrified that his mask would slip. Well, now it well and truly had. Sherlock felt _too much_, and it was breaking him.

"We have to talk about this, Sherlock. You can't just run away." John managed to recover from his shock just as Sherlock was yanking his scarf on, and the look he received, as he rose and moved toward his flat mate, stole his breath. Emotion was swimming in the consulting detective's eyes, raw and painful, and for the first time ever, John saw a Sherlock who could be genuinely hurt. And had been, not by the insults slung at him every day by people who didn't know better, but by the man who was supposed to be his only friend.

"Sherlock, I know I've been a horrible friend to you since you've been back. I want to make that up to you. Please, Sherlock… I won't force you to show me anything you don't want to show me, but please, don't run away. You didn't before, so please, don't do it now. Just give me a chance to make it up to you."

John was terrified that if Sherlock left, he would not come back. Ever. He would get himself mixed up in drugs again, or perhaps simply decide he didn't need London or cases or John and just keep moving. He had the money to do so, and if he had the inclination, he could leave and never look back. Mycroft would help him, if that was what he needed, even though it would break his older brother's heart.

"John, I truly do not wish to do this right now. I tried so many times to let you in, and you continued to close me out. Don't ask me to give you the courtesy you never gave me. It's cruel, and I never thought you were a cruel man."

Sherlock's voice was broken, cracking and quiet, far too quiet, and John felt something in him break.

He crossed the room then and hauled Sherlock into his arms, never mind that the taller man stiffened, never mind that they had never been the type of friends who hugged even before the whole Moriarty mess had torn them so far apart. He simply held on, instinct telling him that this was what both of them needed.

Sherlock was trembling under his hand, but he calmed by degrees, arms coming up to return the huge with surprising strength.

When John finally stepped back, they watched one another anxiously, each looking for a reason to run, and a reason to stay.

"I can't seem to let this go, John." He confessed all at once, but the army doctor only nodded, understanding perfectly

"And I could never let you go, Sherlock. I never really believed you were gone, never really believed that you wouldn't someday return to me. I'm just sorry that when you did, I was so afraid."

Sherlock bit his lip, pulling back a step. It wasn't a rejection, John knew, but something he needed in order to feel in control again.

"I think that we should, perhaps, go to sleep. In the morning, we can… rebuild. For now, I think that a continuation of this discussion would do more harm than good." Sherlock desperately needed time to build his shields back up. He was dangerously close to breaking, and he wasn't ready to trust John that completely, not yet. It would likely take some time, no matter how agonizing all of his was, and how badly he just wanted it to be done, one way or the other.

"Okay," John said slowly, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. "But do you promise you won't leave tonight, and that you'll be here in the morning when I wake up?" Sherlock promised quietly, and John retreated back to his room, well aware that he was going to find it hard to sleep.

When he finally did drift off, he dreamed, and in his dreams Sherlock spoke to him, that deep baritone voice offering him everything he'd ever wanted, but pulling away when John tried to take it. The temptation was impossible to ignore, but he couldn't help feeling that if he did reach for Sherlock, it would destroy something in both of them that they could never get back. He'd already given so much of himself to this man. How could he give him that, too, when there was no guarantee he would ever feel the same?

Sherlock did try to sleep, too, but his mind was churning far too fast, and he wasn't ready for another nightmare. He simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, and wondered why it was so hard to be here, when it had been even harder to be away. Surely he should be able to deal with this? He had always known that John couldn't be his, not really, but knowing that he'd lost the other man's trust had been an unexpected torture.

They had had moments of closeness over the past few months, that was true. He'd supported him in his efforts to become close with his brother again, and had helped him figure out what to say at the wedding. But now… Ugh. Sherlock's life was a mess, and he doubted the morning would make it any easier to deal with. He wished there were some kind of instruction manual or map on how to deal with these sorts of things.

Deciding there was little he could to about any of it now, he rolled over, determining to put it out of his mind. He closed his eyes, retreating into his mind palace, heading straight for the room that held his happiest memories in an effort to stave off the dark thoughts. He tried very hard to ignore just how many of the memories here included John.


	3. Read My Mind

**A/N: Early post, thanks to a lovely request from a friend. This is based off Read My Mind, by The Killers, and has the boys doing some actual bonding, instead of just spewing angst everywhere. This is where the story starts to warm up a little. Enjoy!**

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"There are a lot of scars." Sherlock said haltingly, still a little overwhelmed by the change in their dynamic again. He hadn't slept, had been afraid to, and had spent the majority of his night letting his brain flick over the cases they'd worked together. Flashes of them had haunted him while he'd been away, dealing with broken bones and the darkest sides of humanity possible. Those were the moments he'd returned to: John, looking dashing and brave with a gun held tight in his hand, not so much as a tremor visible as he held himself under perfect control. John, giggling with him at a crime scene, then streaking through London and collapsing together on the couch, laughing like idiots over the fact that they'd nearly died.

Of course, the idea of John dying was honestly a horror too bleak for Sherlock to honestly consider, so he forced his mind back to their current conversation. John was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. That was what this was, after all. This was his opportunity to express to John where he'd been and what he'd become while he was away. If they had any chance of reconnecting at all, this was how it was going to happen.

"I did not have backup on many of the missions I elected to take on myself. Mycroft sent people to look out for me, of course, but at first I was no better at accepting their help as I was when I was still here. I eventually became better about that, after I broke my wrist and lost out on valuable time, but if I couldn't have my backup of choice, I didn't want anyone at all."

Unsaid was that John was the one he'd have chosen to look out for him, but they both understood. John wished that Sherlock could truly read minds, because then he could see how torn up he was about all of this.

"But you did eventually move on from that." John's statement held an unspoken question, and he began to wonder if maybe Sherlock _could_ read minds, a thought he'd harbored from time to time, because he answered immediately.

"Not moved on, no. You are my conductor of light, John. I need you to truly shine. I accepted the help that was offered to me, but I did not stop wishing that it was you by my side."

"Is that why you did all this? Because you hoped you could come back someday, and it would all be like it had never happened? That you could pull off this bit of magic and things would go back to the way they were?"

"No. I did this to save your life. I had hoped that in time you would be able to look past it all and that we might someday have our former dynamic back again, but I knew better than to expect it. In fact, I was fairly astounded when you invited me to stay here. I didn't expect you to want the danger of working with me back." Sherlock paused, then, frowning. "Of course, I guess you didn't want the danger back, as you aren't working with me, but being here was far more than I expected at all."

"And then I went and blew you off for months and wouldn't explain my thoughts on it." John blew out a breath, a little surprised when Sherlock's cheeks turned pink.

"Well, yes." He murmured, reaching for his mug and taking a small gulp of tea. It took John a second to realize that the younger man was embarrassed by not having anticipated John's reactions, and not having called him on them. It was quite out of character for him not to say something.

"Why did you not confront me about this, exactly?" Part of John had a feeling he knew, but he wanted to hear it from Sherlock.

"I didn't want to lose you completely. I figured that if this was all the more you were willing to give me, it was still better than life completely void of my conductor of light. I wasn't willing to push, when any attempt on my part to explain was met with rejection. I didn't want you to get sick of me and throw me out completely."

"So you thought that I would toss you out if you asked for things to be the way they were."

"I wouldn't have blamed you. I wouldn't blame you even now." Sherlock's words were actually somewhat startling.

"Isn't that a bit illogical for you, though? If it was all based off the logic you worship, then things should revert exactly to the way they were. Shouldn't you be upset because you don't understand this?"

Sherlock looked away so John wouldn't see the spark of pain that flared in his eyes at this comment. He'd been a fantastic actor, and had in fact played his part _too_ well—now the man who was supposed to know him better than anyone else thought, even now, that he was part robot. That hurt, but was to be expected. And it was probably in his best interests to promote the incorrect assumption… though he wasn't sure he could stand doing so.

"I would be lying if I said I didn't miss the good old days, as they say, John. Perhaps I do not feel things like normal people, but I am not as robotic as I might sometimes appear. You have every right to hate me, after everything, but your actions… they have confused me. Sometimes you pull me closer, and other times, you pull me away. I wish to make things easier on you, but am not sure how."

John was trying to reconcile the man who had thought of Moriarty's puzzles as a great challenge, no matter the risk to innocent people, with a man who not only admitted to missing the way they'd lived before, but also to sympathizing with John's feelings. He hadn't actually been aware that Sherlock could sympathize, period.

"Sherlock… I'm not sure easy is an option, between us. I'm not sure it will ever be possible, or that it ever was easy. Maybe that first day, but after that… it never really made sense, the way we just worked together. Solving cases, blogging about it, you forgetting your pants… those things made sense. The rest of it… Not so much. You let me take care of you in ways you wouldn't even let your own brother, and I put up with things I never would have put up with from anyone else. We were always so much more patient with one another than either of us would be with anyone else. That's not easy."

Still unable to look at his blogger, Sherlock rose gracefully, hands clasped behind his back. He wished he was able to read minds, the way everyone had once half assumed he could do. It would be so much easier to know how to convince John to let him in again. It might have been sweet torture, but anything was better than the distance and silence that had only grown since his return, instead of disappearing. He wanted the friendship, if he could have nothing else.

"Sherlock, I… When you were gone, I broke down. I felt like I lost the only friend I ever had; I felt like everything good about my life was gone. Even now that you're here, part of me feels like… you could disappear any day again. Now that you've done it once, it would be so much easier for you to do it again. And I would have no control. It's like if I let myself get sucked back in… I might not remember another way of life, this time. And that's terrifying."

The heart no one knew he had, save perhaps his brother, broke in that moment, all over again. That John feared he might leave again, after everything they'd been through, hurt, but more than that, he hated that he inspired those feelings in the man he considered his only friend.

"I shouldn't have returned at all, John. To make you feel this way…" Sherlock shook his head, gazing out the window. "I have now hurt you not just once, but twice. I have been horribly unfair to you."

"No, Sherlock." John was on his feet in a second, spinning the consulting detective quickly around and gasping at the pain in his eyes. He knew, just from his expression, that he was experiencing every bit as much pain as John was at all of this.

"No, it was not a mistake to come home. Never say that. Maybe we have a lot we need to work out, but we can turn this thing around. We just need to actually be honest with one another. Stop lashing out or shutting down when we could be talking things through."

"Do you think either of us is actually capable of that? It's been, what, John, half a year since my return? This week marks the first time either of us have discussed anything more in depth than the weather, as far as we're concerned. Sure, we discussed Mycroft and Gregory, but you've avoided this like the plague. Why the sudden turnaround?"

There was something dark and desperate in Sherlock's eyes, and though John didn't recognize it, he had to suppress the urge to shiver.

"Maybe it's just time. Maybe I'm just finally ready to run through the fire with you again. I can't explain what it is, Sherlock, but I'm just… ready for this. I need us to be friends again, need to know that you and I are going to be okay again. I know I've made these past six months horrible for you, but to be honest, I was terrified that you were going to go away again at any moment. I'm starting to warm up to the fact that maybe you're here to stay. I can't promise that everything will go back to the way it was, but… I can try."

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and everything felt fragile, like breathing wrong would break everything. Then it rushed out all at once, and he surprised John by stepping forward to hug him. It should probably have been more awkward than it was, but it was oddly perfect, and then Sherlock pulled away, beaming.

Before he could speak, his phone went off, and he quickly picked it up—something he'd gotten used to doing for himself—and answered with curt, monosyllabic answers. When he hung up, he still looked pleased.

"There's a case, John. Would you like to come with me?" The offer sounded so hopeful, John knew there was no way he could turn it down. It had been a couple of months since Sherlock had asked him along. He had still occasionally gone, but only when he'd been around when Sherlock got the news, and only when he had chosen to go along. It had gone undiscussed, after the first few times when the consulting detective had offered him an invitation and received a quick dismissal.

"That sounds… yeah. That sounds good. I'll need to get properly dressed, though." John hurried off to his bedroom while Sherlock waited, practically buzzing with excitement.

A few things were the same, but a few things were different. Sherlock paid for the cab, which was new, but he turned to John for his medical expertise, which was the same. Those differences both amused and pleased John. On the whole, Sherlock was more courteous, but his intelligence was every bit as pronounced. He was a bit more joyful as well, though it would be difficult for anyone but John, who was still attuned to his moods, to notice.

It was Dimmock who'd called them, as Greg was gone for another week. He shook his head at Sherlock's antics but only said that it was good to have the two of them back, and then he recorded what Sherlock told him and promised to be competent when he arrested the killer.

Satisfied with that, Sherlock strolled away to catch a cab for them, but he kept his steps slower than normal, and it didn't go unappreciated.

"We're not going to track down the sister-in-law ourselves, then?" John asked as they waited for a cab to come by. Sherlock grabbed his arm and tugged him out of the way when the cab would have splashed water all over the front of his trousers, and only answered when they were in the cab, and he was looking at his blogger, eyes blazing like diamonds.

"No, I think for once, we should trust to the police to do their jobs. And to be honest, I'd like to go home. You're desperately craving a cup of tea, and honestly, so am I."

John just shook his head, an amused smile on his face as the cab pulled away, taking the two of them home.

"Sometimes, I really do think you read my mind. And maybe it's not a bad thing at all."


	4. Running From Lions

**A/N: This chapter is based off "Running From Lions" by All Time Low. It offers a bit more insight into Sherlock's time away, as well as providing some more lovely angst for your entertainment. I do hope you enjoy! Also, it's unlikely I will be updating tomorrow, as I will likely be very busy, but I should be updating the day after. Now, onto what you came here to read...**

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_"John…" Every moment was agony, but the anger and betrayal he could read all too clearly on John's face made it impossible to move or even think. He was shaking his head in mute denial, those blue eyes swimming in pain Sherlock would have given anything to erase somehow. His own voice was barely above a whisper, raw with pain and the knowledge that there was no way for him to truly make things right._

_ This was madness. He shouldn't have returned. Their friendship was history, and he'd been so, so foolish to return. All his hopes had been for nothing; seeing that look on John's face told him quite clearly what his flat mate thought of him now, and there was nothing he could do about that._

_ "Sherlock. Don't…" Sherlock hadn't even realized he'd been reaching out for John until John was stepping away from his hand, away from him._

_ "John, please, just let me explain." He hadn't let himself cry since childhood, hadn't let the tears fall in all the months away, not when he'd broken bones and ripped open his skin, not even when the homesickness had made him unable to eat or sleep for days on end, made it harder for him to do the job he'd given himself. _

_ "No. No, I can't do this." Still shaking his head, John backed away with his hands up as if he expected Sherlock to attack him or something, until he bumped into the wall. Then one hand was reaching down, fishing for the knob, and the door was open. John fled out it before Sherlock could protest, mumbling something about bringing milk home._

Sherlock tried to set the memories aside as he focused on the papers in front of him. His eyes kept glancing up, of their own accord, to look at his blogger, sitting across the room. He had his laptop in front of him and was clacking away, typing inefficiently with two fingers and still managing to practically bleed romanticized notions into his blog.

John had spent the entirety of their time together writing the story of their life as partners. His therapist had thought that a blog would help him to cope with his life, but instead, he'd ended up using it as a way to brag about Sherlock. The consulting detective hadn't realized just how much of his life John had been a part of, and vice versa, until he'd left.

He hadn't known what had hit him. Being without John had felt like losing a limb, and it had ached every day, not even truly going away when he returned to find John looking so painfully lost. They had both been off balance, but now, they were starting to get their equilibrium back. Slowly. Glacially.

Sherlock had to suppress the urge to leave the room when John suddenly looked up and caught him staring. That was what he'd done for months, after all. Either he had left or John had, but it had seemed like they couldn't be in the same room without the tension overwhelming them. Stolen glances had only made it worse, and soon, Sherlock had had to force himself to simply never look at John, never give him a reason to retreat.

This was new. He felt a bit like a deer in the headlights, but forced a brief smile before returning his gaze to the case file he wasn't really reading. There, he'd managed casual, hadn't he?

"Working on something new, Sherlock?" John's voice was hesitant but strong, and Sherlock breathed out a very quiet sigh of relief as he glanced up again. Leave it to the army doctor to know exactly how to shatter the strangeness. He'd apparently just needed to be ready to let go of the past and accept where they were now, and he was able to repair what was broken between them effortlessly, something Sherlock hadn't come close to doing in half a year.

Of course, he imagined it was significantly easier when he wasn't fighting the connection, while John definitely had been. But he'd said he was ready to get over this… so why was it suddenly so hard for Sherlock to believe, when this was what he'd been waiting for?

It was because he broke things. Being damaged himself, it was all he was capable of doing. He was the chaos to John's calm control, and that simple difference was why they worked so well together. They balanced each other out… except that now that John was calm, Sherlock felt extremely nervous.

He could easily blame it on the fire that shot across his skin every single time John glanced at him. Or he could blame it on the fact that he had always been a creature of habit, and nothing had been normal since he'd left, even though things should have gone back to normal when he'd returned and hadn't. Either way, things were very fragile right now, and he was having a difficult time coping with it. He just didn't want to admit that it might be because his feelings for John were more than those of a friend, proving that he wasn't in his right mind as far as this mess was concerned.

"Not new, exactly. It's a cold case Lestrade was not able to figure out without my assistance during my absence. He never asked Mycroft for insights with this one, so it went unsolved."

"Have you figured it out yet, then?" John smiled at him in a friendly way, and Sherlock forced himself to breathe normally. It wasn't quite his normal smile again, not yet, but the fact that he was trying at all instead of offering up that fake, stiff smile that never reached his eyes… yes, things were getting better.

"I believe so. I would prefer to have had a look at the body, but I suppose that there is no way they could have kept custody of it for so long, even had they known I would return. It really doesn't matter, I suppose; I can figure it out regardless. I believe it's the father who did the killing, though I would need an interview with him to confirm that."

"You've gotten back into this rather easily. You haven't even stumbled over a single case, you realize? Nobody can do that." John looked at him with that familiar awe in his eyes, and his words were so close to a compliment that Sherlock had to settle himself with another deep breath.

"Evidently I am not nobody, then." Sherlock set the folder aside and absently ran a hand through those dark curls of his. "I do not like leaving unfinished business. If I was not on my top form, I would not be taking on cases at all. As it is, it is good for my brain to have something to do. I rather missed these sorts of puzzles in my absence."

That gave John pause. It had been a week, and they hadn't really discussed what exactly Sherlock had done with his time away. John knew he'd done some things that gave him nightmares, but the exact details were not something that had come up.

"So you didn't have to do this sort of thing to find Moriarty's people, then?" It was a cautious approach of the topic, and gave Sherlock room to answer him with a non-answer if he so chose. He could easily dismiss the question with a word, two letters that said that John did not have the right to ask after his time away, after so long.

Instead, Sherlock blushed a little, meeting John's gaze before looking away again.

"Not as much, no. To be honest, it was more spy work than detective work. I worried, sometimes, that my brain would stagnate. Mycroft tried to assist, by sending along details of some of the Yard's more difficult cases to see if I could solve them without my usual proximity to the situation, and he would then tell me if I'd been right or not. Those sorts of things kept me busy on stakeouts, I suppose."

"Better than retreating into your mind palace, I guess. You could be getting tortured and you'd never notice, if you were there." John joked, and Sherlock winced a little bit.

"Actually, you're not entirely wrong. Of course, that was where I retreated to _during_ torture, rather than the other way around, but it is an accurate sentiment nonetheless. Though I did learn to visit my mind palace while keeping partial awareness of my surroundings. It sometimes became necessary, to be able to think my way through details of the past few months in order to anticipate my enemies, and their next movements."

"You sound like a hardened solider, when you talk about this. And you get this look in your eyes… how often were your tortured?" John knew it would probably kill him to hear the details, but there was a part of him, the part that could never tear its eyes away from a car crash, that _needed_ to know what Sherlock had been through for him, needed to know so he could remember, next time Sherlock said or did something insensitive, that he truly did care.

"Often enough." Sherlock's voice was barely audible, and his eyes, normally so piercing, were distant enough that they could have been fixed on something a million miles away.

"We don't have to talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable, Sherlock." John said, meaning every word. He might want to know, but he would shoot himself before he would bring more pain to this man who had obviously suffered enough.

"You blame yourself for this. You shouldn't. I was the one who didn't know when to pull back before things reached that point." Sherlock was suddenly looking right at him, almost looking _through_ him, and John was spellbound by the intensity in those strange eyes. "I was the one who couldn't quit playing the game, John. I could have put an end to Moriarty's madness, but I… he was the greatest challenge I had ever faced. I remember thinking that I wished every criminal was as clever as him. It never occurred to me that I was creating for myself an impossible situation. I kept wanting more, and I paid for it."

It almost made John physically ill to hear Sherlock blaming himself for the things that had happened.

"You do realize that you had no control over Moriarty, don't you? You can't listen to the bastards who villainized you and said that he was your brain child. You weren't the one pulling the strings. That was him. You didn't have any choice but to take the case on."

"But I did, John. Don't you see? I always knew that if there were people like me in the world, there would be people like him. Mycroft warned me to keep a lower profile, but if I am perfectly honest, I didn't listen to him. I wanted the recognition, wanted the world to know what I was capable of. I made myself a perfect target for him. Bold, ambitious, emotionally vacant… I was the perfect competition for him. He thought we were alike… and I never made it clear that we weren't."

"It's still not on you, the things he did. Just because we admire or envy someone doesn't mean we have to go crazy and kill people off to get attention. Those are the actions of a crazy person, not someone who's sane."

"He was a psychopath and a sociopath, and I am neither, but to the world, we were alike. That was the impression I not only allowed then to carry but in fact _encouraged_, because it allowed me to remain detached. If I am a sociopath, no one can hate me for making the hard decisions that might mean that someone's mother or father never goes home, because if I can't understand the emotion behind it, I'm not a monster who willingly chooses to cause others pain, because I am not aware I'm doing it."

"So that's what it was all about, then? A shield, to make sure the world didn't hate you for doing what's necessary?"

"Yes. That's what it was all about." Sherlock laughed bitterly, rising because he couldn't stand to sit, just then. "If the world saw me only as the monster other monsters feared, they would never try to hurt me, but they would also not put themselves in danger by trying to become close to me and make themselves targets. There are many reasons for what I did, but the majority of them backfired from the moment Moriarty set his sights on me."

"Sherlock… What you do is noble, probably more so than most people even realize. And for the record, I've always known you were not a monster. Perhaps you aren't as good an actor as you think you are."

"Or perhaps I simply can't act properly when it comes to you." The words had escaped before Sherlock had thought about them, and John looked at him curiously.

"Why would that be? I'm nothing special. Maybe now we're friends, but we weren't the day we met, and you were still different with me." It was a logical question, and yet Sherlock found himself hesitant to answer, for what it might reveal.

He could still remember the white hot spike of lust he'd felt the first time he'd laid eyes on the doctor, despite not having ever felt a true physical attraction before. It had only grown the more time they'd spent together, until he'd shot the man's incredible unintentional offer down while they were out at dinner, understanding he was straight and not wanting him to realize what he'd done and scare him off.

John had never noticed his own flare of interest, Sherlock had deduced, because he'd never said or done anything about it, and hadn't made an advance since that day, proving Sherlock's theory. He'd never meant to hit on him, not truly, and it was painful to admit, no matter that it was ultimately a good thing. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was capable of being in the sort of relationship that could make him happy anyway, even if he didn't have those "I'm not gay" issues. He'd never been in a relationship before, after all.

Realizing John was still waiting for an answer—three seconds had passed—Sherlock shrugged.

"I am not sure I can explain it. I just… deduced that you would be a fitting partner." And he hadn't been able to bear the idea of losing John's attention and praise, though he was _not_ going to admit that part of it.

"I guess that is just like you." John chuckled, completely unaware of the nervousness that had taken hold of Sherlock. He was blaming his fidgeting on the lack of a case, as he always did, but the truth was that being in John's proximity, just the two of them alone together for days on end at the flat, was always difficult for Sherlock to endure. The temptation to reach out and touch was ever present, and had only gotten worse after his time away.

"Yes." Sherlock blinked repeatedly to call himself back, lest he fall too deeply into those blue eyes and never find his way back out again. He hadn't even realized he'd been making eye contact, and then he'd just kind of gotten sucked in, a phenomenon that happened all too often, when it came to John. He needed something to _do_.

Just then a text came in, and Sherlock practically leapt on his phone, relief at having a distraction hitting him hard.

"Mycroft and Gregory just returned to London. They've invited us to dinner at Angelo's." Sherlock wasn't sure whether to be irritated or grateful, so he settled on a mixture of both. His brother had to have known that he and John were having a rough time of things, because there was very little Mycroft _didn't_ know, and while it would be good to get out of the flat, Angelo's was the last place they should really be going if Sherlock was going to get it through his head that they were not, and were never going to be, a couple.

"Do you want to go, then?" John asked, watching Sherlock carefully. There was something about his expression, as if the idea was bittersweet, and he realized that the two of them hadn't been back to Angelo's since before the Fall. Had Sherlock been back by himself since then? Knowing him, probably not.

"I… believe so. Yes." It was unlike Sherlock to not know everything for certain, but he found that everything with John was like this. Almost from the first day they'd met, John had been so refreshingly _abnormal_, acting like everybody else and then suddenly doing the last thing that would be expected of him. The most astonishing thing of all, of course, was dealing with Sherlock on a day to day basis. Even Moriarty hadn't understood that, and thus, hadn't really been able to use it. He'd only had an insight into Sherlock's emotions, but John, kind, gentle, wonderful John had been safe from him by virtue of being everything but what he appeared to be.

Yes, Sherlock was used to not being sure of his footing when it came to this man, and he bit his lip now, a frown marring his otherwise perfect features.

"Do _you_ want to go?" It had been rare before for Sherlock to ask John's opinion on anything, instead basically just dragging him along, and it stunned both of them to realize they liked this new, slightly shy version of the consulting detective, not quite sure where he stood with John.

"Yes. It'll be good to see them again. Mycroft was never my favorite person in the past, but he's come a long way, and he's so good for Greg. I think I quite like your brother these days, actually." Flashing a grin that John didn't know made Sherlock's heart skip a beat, he stood and stretched. It was getting late in the afternoon already, and he headed off for a shower so he could be dressed and ready while Sherlock sank back down in his chair, obviously deep in thought.

_Was it good or bad that John liked Mycroft?_ In some ways, it was very good, because they were two of the four most important people in Sherlock's life. On the other hand, what if Mycroft offered him some sort of job, and he accepted it? He didn't think his brother would do that, but he realized he was going to have to make sure, for the sake of his own sanity.

John was one of the few people who would never sell Sherlock out for anything. That kind of loyalty was invaluable, and something he'd that had caught him completely by surprise. For all the people who'd given up on Sherlock, called him a freak and a lost cause, John had never once thrown those accusations at him, with the exception of the day he jumped. He chose to ignore the events of that day, as he'd pushed his blogger far beyond the limits anyone should have been able to endure without breaking.

And yet, John had defended him fearlessly. His John wouldn't leave him for anything, not even a job that allowed him to use all of his skills… would he?

Deciding he could eliminate even the possibility without John ever being the wiser, Sherlock picked up his violin and played soothing music to calm his own nerves. He was still playing an hour later when John came down the stairs, dressed in jeans and a jumper, casual yet so breathtaking Sherlock had to remind himself to look away after several awkward moments.

"You look nice." Sherlock said, keeping his voice as cool and removed as possible as he finished the piece he'd been working on.

"Thanks." If John blushed a little bit, they both ignored it. Sherlock knew John was unused to compliments from men, and John knew Sherlock would put his blush off to the heat or strangeness.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked then, remembering the first time he'd asked the same. Almost like they were transported back to that day, John offered him that same radiant smile, eyes full now with experiences, rather than just hope.

"Starving."


	5. Burn This City

**A/N: Back to your regularly scheduled programming, today. The song is "Burn This City," by Cartel. This chapter gives you a bit more Mystrade, and also has Mycroft and Sherlock talking, in their way, about those icky, inconvenient feeling things they were both so repulsed by before the start of my little tale. I hope you enjoy!**

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"How have you two been?" John asked almost as soon as he and Sherlock had settled down into chairs across from Mycroft and Greg. Mycroft shrugged and smiled, and Greg launched into an explanation, albeit edited to remove scenes that would make Sherlock run screaming from the table, of their honeymoon.

"I'm practically counting the days until the next one," Greg joked, hand twining with Mycroft's in the small gap between their seats. While it had been lovely to get away, he really did love his work, and he knew his husband felt the same way. "What did the two of you get up to?"

"Oh, the usual. Annoying Dimmock, for one thing, since you weren't here for Sherlock to pester for cases. Other than that, Sherlock's pretty much just been keeping me up nights with his violin and using up all the milk. Things have been normal."

Except, Mycroft thought as he watched the interaction between Sherlock and John, things _weren't_ normal between them. The dynamic had changed again, judging by how much more relaxed they were around one another now. He met his brother's gaze quickly, in silent agreement. They would be discussing it later.

"So Sherlock didn't manage to nearly get you killed in our absence, then, John?" Greg, who had known about the tension between them more because of John's habit of talking a lot when inebriated than because of his observational skills, was pleased that John had gone out on a case with him, something that had become really rare since Sherlock's return.

John had been trying to get distance, both because of his ever-increasing attraction and the fact that he was terrified Sherlock would walk away from their friendship again, but everyone knew that Sherlock was truly lost without his blogger.

"No. I mean, we didn't even go chase down the perp this time ourselves. Kind of strange for Sherlock to not be involved in every single part of the investigation, but I think we were both tired that night." Smiling a little as he remembered the cup of tea Sherlock had made him—_not_ spiked with anything this time, though it was still slightly strange tasting—John perused a menu, quickly picking out something for both him and Sherlock.

"Sherlock! I wondered when you would be back!" Angelo's booming voice was their only warning as the man walked up and, practically yanking the slim consulting detective out of his seat, embraced him tightly. The same treatment was given to Mycroft, who handled physical contact like that little better than his brother, and both Holmes siblings looked a little flustered as Angelo took their orders, lit the candles in the center of the table, and took off whistling a tune.

"That never changes," Mycroft commented dryly as he poured wine for the four of them, not spilling a single drop.

"How is it you're so damn graceful, baby?" Greg, who'd long since quit hiding this term of endearment from their closest friends, smiled lovingly at his husband as he passed out wine flutes and took a delicate sip of his own. He shrugged.

"I'd blame it on genetics, but I can't actually prove that. As far as I know neither of our parents are particularly graceful. Usually they're far too stiff for their own good, actually. Sherlock and I both seem possessed of an abundance of grace, however."

"Yes. Though I occasionally think I am only graceful from so many years spent trying to emulate you." Sherlock commented, surprising all of them. He and Mycroft were certainly on better footing now, but for either of them to comment on their past was still a little strange.

"Perhaps so, Sherlock. Either way, it is nice to have that in common, I suppose." Mycroft studied his brother a little more closely now, scanning his brother's face for changes that he would be hearing about later in greater detail. He was a little bit paler than he'd been when they'd left, and he looked a bit tired, but he also looked a little happier, which was certainly nice to see.

Glancing over at Greg, he smiled again, realizing just how lucky the two of them were. They'd figured out what was happening to them far earlier in the game than John and Sherlock, and had been able to admit their feelings before having fallen in love. The younger pair had some catching up to do.

Dinner was a lovely affair, for once not interrupted by a call to a crime scene or a national crisis of any kind, and when they were finished Mycroft squeezed Greg's hand, a quiet signal to go along with his plan. Greg, well used to this sort of thing by now, understood instantly.

"Sherlock, would you perhaps like to come back to the flat with me? There is a case I would like you to go over. It's nothing I would want to send you out for, mind, but I do think it deserves a second set of eyes." Unspoken went the fact that Mycroft was more brilliant than he, a fact that only one person at the table was oblivious to. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but only nodded, while Greg suggested that he and John could go out for a pint and catch up, and meet up with them later.

A ride across town and an hour later found the Holmes brothers sitting up on the roof, legs dangling over the edge, a glass of whiskey beside them both though they were more interested in the view than their drinks.

"You are so very passionate about your work, Sherlock," Mycroft started, "and I sometimes wondered, in the past, if you weren't going to burn yourself out completely within a few years, or perhaps tire of London and take off for someplace far more dangerous."

"Is that why you were always trying to give me assignments you could keep an eye on, then? Even when we were harboring under the theory that we strongly disliked each other?" A little amused by the direction of their conversation, Sherlock tilted his head back, remembering all the times the two of them had snuck out Mycroft's bedroom window to have conversations on the roof, where they could have an unrestricted view of the stars and not have to worry about being caught out of bed.

"We've both always been too bright for our own good, brother. And before you refute that, consider all the problems it has caused for us. I think we've worked it out very well, considering, but I know that those feelings of being strange are what prompts you to 'show off,' as that idiotic Anderson and Donovan are constantly accusing you of doing."

"I'll agree that it has made our lives remarkably difficult, but it has also made some things easier," Sherlock pointed out, knowing that this particular part of the conversation wasn't the point of it, but rather a way to the point. He realized he'd played exactly into what Mcyroft wanted him to say when the older man smiled, tilting his head back to look at constellations so different from the ones he'd been viewing only the night before.

"There are those who say that you would burn this city down, as well as everyone in it, and never think twice. That you could easily be the next Moriarty. That would be easy for you, but it isn't the path you choose. Instead, you choose to have our favorite army doctor serve as your moral compass, and let him guide you even though he has no idea how much you truly do rely on him. It is a much harder course for you."

Sherlock, who remembered all too well the years of isolation when he'd done some rather questionable things in order to protect John and the others, could only agree. Life had certainly been much more black and white, exactly how he liked it, but it had lacked any real element of happiness. In fact, no nonessential feelings had been allowed to factor in. It had been a bleak existence, more survival than actual life. John had somehow become his conscience, and his conductor of light, and without him, all was black and cold. There was no fire, just black ice that consumed his soul. And Sherlock desperately needed the fire.

"You once told me that I was wasting my talent, serving as a consulting detective when I could be curing cancer or sending colonies of people into space. Those would be easier paths, too. I suppose I've never been one for the easy road. I like the danger and the variables that can change. It keeps my brain on top form. Do you still think I'm wasting my life, brother?" It was a fair and honest question, and Mycroft decided to give it a fair and honest answer.

"I think as long as John Watson is around, you are driven to reach your full potential. And that, by all indications, this life is something both of you need. Besides, consulting detective hands down beats pirate. I prefer you on the right side of the law, where I can protect you when you do something a bit not good."

Sherlock chuckled at that, but Mycroft's next words effectively cut his humor off at the knees.

"Of course, as long as John is around, you wouldn't dream of doing anything that would make him unhappy knowingly. Tell me, Sherlock, is he aware that you're in love with him yet?" Mycroft knew he wasn't, of course. He'd been able to tell, and could still read it now, in the stiffness of Sherlock's shoulders and the way his jaw clenched, unconsciously highlighting those razorblade cheekbones he'd been lucky to be born with.

"He's not caught on yet, no." The comment was quiet, and Mycroft sighed. There was nothing he wanted to do more than tell his brother everything he'd seen, but not only would Sherlock likely not believe him, but it was something he needed to discover on his own, if he was going to trust it at all. He needed to know that it wasn't something Mycroft had manipulated which meant, no matter how difficult it was, he was going to have to leave his baby brother alone on this one and just trust him to figure it out. With a few well-placed hints, that was.

"I think he's missing out, with all those vapid women he dates, when he could be with someone who actually understands him. But I think you are missing out, too. Don't wait too long to tell him how you feel, brother. He deserves to know, and you deserve to be able to be completely honest with him."

"What if I lose him for good, Mycroft? I am not certain that I could continue with the Work, continue with any of this, if he left. While you were gone we actually talked about my absence, and the reasons for it, for the first time. It's far too soon to throw another bombshell at him, while he's still dealing with this. And he is still working his way through it."

Mycroft, who'd thought as much from their interactions at dinner, nodded, then lay back with his arms tucked under his head to stare at the stars. After a few seconds of hesitation, Sherlock also lay completely back, and for a while there was companionable silence.

"I shared my fascination with the stars with Gregory, while we were on our honeymoon. Do you remember when I taught you about the different constellations, Sherlock?"

"I don't think I could ever forget. They were my bedtime stories, Mycroft. The only ones I ever really got." Their parents, never the affectionate type, had just assumed their boys were too old for those sorts of things from infancy. Mycroft had taken over the things they should have done, somewhat unconsciously, and had always been the one to comfort Sherlock when there were monsters under the closet or mean kids at school.

It had been after Sherlock had nearly been beaten up for observing that one of his classmates was being beaten by his father that Mycroft had taken him up to the roof for the first time, pointing out the different groups of stars and telling their stories while Sherlock observed them through one eye, the other covered by a bag of ice. Mycroft had fortunately been close enough to hear his brother's screams and save him from the worst of an ambush after school, as it was their habit to walk together, but he hadn't gotten their quite in time to prevent the first blow. Their parents hadn't even noticed Sherlock sniffling softly at the dinner table that night, or the way his dark curls were obscuring one side of his face completely.

"Have you brought Gregory up here yet?" Sherlock didn't sound offended by the idea, just curious, and Mycroft smiled at the stars.

"No, not yet. I've always privately thought of the rooftop as our place, though I suppose I might occasionally bring him up here, if you don't object."

Sherlock frowned.

"Why would you think of this as our place? This is our first time up here together on this rooftop. I never came and visited you here before."

"No, but I always hoped that you would, and that someday we would be as close again as we were as children." Mycroft's confession brought silence down on them for a while, as they both thought over the past few years, and all the things that had happened since Moriarty had come on the scene. It was strange to think that, for all the man had torn apart, he'd managed to unite them once again.

"Thank you, for that." Sherlock said quietly. "Still, feel free to bring your husband up here. I assume he'll know not to come up when the two of us are talking."

Mycroft felt his heart give a little throb, and then he extended a hand upward, pointing at one specific constellations. Though it was still winter, neither brother really felt the cold.

"Do you remember what I told you about the _Pleiades?_" The two brothers traded stories and memories back and forth until they quit being able to feel their fingertips. Then they retreated inside, wondering when Greg and John would be back.


	6. Learn My Lesson

**A/N: What's on the menu today? If you guessed another healthy serving of angst, you'd be right! But this is where you will start to see some light at the end of the tunnel. The song is "Learn My Lesson" by Daughtry, and I hope you enjoy this last little bit of angst!**

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"You'd think that I'd have learned by now," John commented as he and Greg rose unsteadily from their bar stools and headed for the door. Greg, who had only a vague idea what his friend was talking about but wasn't drunk enough to miss the note of pure melancholy in his voice, simply made a sympathetic noise so he would continue with his rant.

"There's no way Sherlock's ever going to really care about me. And loving him hurts too much. I keep getting burned."

"Whoa, mate. Where's this coming from, exactly?" Far from drunk enough to miss John's obvious need for discussion, Greg guided him to a bench overlooking the river and the two of them sat, John a bit harder than was probably good for him. The DI briefly wondered if his leg was acting up again, as it was wont to do when he was emotional about Sherlock, but it was hard to tell if he was limping because of the way he was swaying.

"Loving him really hurts. And he doesn't even know." John sighed and threw his head back, staring a little blindly at the stars. He was, Greg realized, well and truly pissed.

"I thought the two of you were getting back on equal footing again? You went out on a case with him. Does that mean you're talking through things now?"

"I was so angry at him, Greg. So, so angry. But then he just shows up like the worst three years of my life never happened, and pretends that everything's going to be all fine, and it's not fucking fine. It's not."

The cop had heard too many of these rants to truly be impressed by John's inability to answer a question directly, but this time felt different. Almost as if he was more fragile than he had been before. Or, rather, as if he was letting himself be more fragile, or drawing closer to the real problem and increasing his own agitation. Greg debated the pros and cons of pressing for more information for a minute before deciding that it was something John could probably use his help with.

"Start from the beginning, John." That, at least, should give him some sort of basis from which to direct the conversation. He'd only managed one beer in the time John had downed four, so he was much steadier. He kept his voice pitched low and calm, but not patronizing, careful to not sound like a therapist.

"We didn't talk when he came back. It was bad." John sighed and lay his head on Greg's shoulder, though it was really more of a lolling to the side than anything else. Fortunately, the cop was not easily alarmed, and didn't jump away.

"You were talking during that first case you came to after he returned. And you were talking at the party you threw."

"That's not what I mean. I mean, we didn't talk about him leaving me all alone, didn't talk about that stuff. I didn't want us to."

"If you didn't want to talk about it, why does it make you sad that you didn't talk?" John sniffed at this, tipping back to look at his companion. He swayed a little in his seat, but managed not to fall back over.

"I felt like a discarded girlfriend. With him off flitting about the world, forgetting all about me and everything, while I was back here thinking he was dead. Didn't want to know about it, but it hurt not knowing. And then I find out I'm a prat."

John was slurring his words, but Greg managed to piece things together well enough to figure out what he meant. His heart went out to both of them, in this situation. It honestly hadn't been paradise for either of them, but at least Sherlock had known John was alive… while he was being tortured to keep him that way. He steered himself back to the conversation at hand hastily, lest he spend the next hour weighing which of them had paid more for their friendship.

"I felt so empty, while he was gone. Like there was nothing left here worth living for. And now he's here, and I'm so terrified, Greg…"

"Terrified of what, exactly, John?"

"That I'll lose him again. That I won't be enough. That he'll find someone else who can match his smarts and go off playing these games with them, and I won't be a factor."

They were, Greg thought, fair and legitimate concerns. Both as a friend and as something more, John cared greatly for Sherlock, and the fear that he might get left behind again would probably be even more powerful now that he'd had a taste of it once. John obviously had a lot of unresolved feelings about the Fall and its aftermath already, and his terror would only be adding to the stress. It was no wonder the poor guy was upset.

"Sherlock cares about you. You're one of the few people who actually do matter to him. He's not a sociopath, John, no matter what pretty language he throws about to make people think that. You know him better than that. He didn't have to return at all, but he did—for you."

"Nah. It was for the cases. It's always about the bloody cases, never about me. How many times have I almost died because of the Work?" John sounded close to tears now, and Greg decided it was time for a little tough love, just so they could get through the conversation to the heart of it.

"And how many times have you actually died? Sherlock might have occasionally put you in danger, but he's always gotten the both of you out of it, no matter how difficult it might prove. And you are part of the Work, John. You have been since the day the two of you met. I never knew anyone could keep up with Sherlock or keep his interest like that, until you came along, and suddenly it was like watching two puzzle pieces slot together. Neither of you is complete without the other. He needs you just as much as you need him."

"Nope. Sherlock doesn't need anyone. He told me once that alone's what protects him." John sounded simply resigned now, and Greg decided to push a little harder.

"And when did he tell you that, exactly? When he was trying to convince himself that the best thing was to leave you behind and risk his life killing off Moriarty's web so you could be safe?"

There was a pregnant pause during which time John looked around then put his face in his hands, scrubbing at it for a little bit. Then he sighed and looked back at the cop with his bleary eyes.

"So?"

"So, John, he was saying what he needed to say to convince you to believe as everyone else did. He did the same sort of thing to me. He _wanted_ _us _to lose our faith in him. While I faltered a little, you never gave in to it, and always believed in him. It only meant he had to hurt you more, so he could do what needed to be done. He was reciting a mantra he no longer believes in in order to keep you safe from harm. For the first time in his life, John, he put someone before the work—you. He finally succeeded in becoming not just a great man, but also a good one."

John blinked at this, then smiled a little with his eyes shimmering with tears.

"You think so?"

"I know so. And you've helped him to become a good man, John. He was lost without you, and always would have been. If he has a conscience now, it's because you've given it to him. And from everything I've seen since his return, he does. _You_ did that, John. It was your influence, and if that isn't powerful evidence that you've made an impact, I don't know what is. So why are you so sad about the whole thing? You should be celebrating."

"The longing for him, Greg. You wouldn't believe… He's got those cheekbones, and those eyes, and that hair that just screams for me to touch, and I can't ever reach out and touch him. It's like watching a match lighting up, and knowing that no matter how pretty, you can't touch it or you'll get burned. The fire doesn't want you to touch it, no matter how much you want to hold it."

Greg sighed, remembering how he'd thought the exact same things about Mycroft.

"I know what it's like, John. Truly, I do. But sometimes, you just have to take that risk. I thought Mycroft was made of ice, and that he'd freeze my hand off as soon as I tried to touch him, but there's such fire in him, such warmth, and I never would have known about it had I not scratched the surface, asked to be let in for the price of my heart. If you've already lost it to him anyway, what does it really hurt, letting him know about it?"

"I could lose my friend. And he could lose me. He needs me, you know, as a friend. Not as a blogger, or a doctor, certainly, but as a friend." John was starting to sound a little more sober, now that the chilly winter air was whipping at them from the river and they'd been out in it for a while, and Greg decided it was time to get them moving again. Helping John to his feet, he wrapped an arm around him and started guiding him in the direction of Mycroft's flat. It wasn't an extremely far distance, but it would give John time to sober up so he wouldn't slip and say something he'd hate himself for saying in the morning.

Greg had a feeling he would then end up being very grateful for the slip, but for the moment, he decided it was best to save his friend the initial embarrassment. And he knew that the moment when Sherlock and John finally let down their guards and trusted each other should not be fueled by alcohol, but rather by a firmly made decision.

"He does need you as a friend, but he might need something more, too. Have you considered that maybe he's just as lonely as you are? That maybe he needs someone as much as you do, to light up the dark and make his dreams come true?"

"Sherlock doesn't need anyone. He's told me so himself."

"If he didn't need you, than why would he have come back for you? And why would he do so time and again, when you correct him and make him apologize for things and behave in a decidedly un-Sherlockian way?"

John wasn't sure what to say to this, so he said nothing. His brain was beginning to clear thanks to the chill of winter, and he knew he should really think over the things that Greg had said. The older man usually proved surprisingly insightful, for how often Sherlock despaired of his ability to do his job, and John had learned to never dismiss something he said as insignificant or pointless. That had a way of biting him in the ass later, like the time he'd warned John about the violin playing.

"Thanks for making me walk around a bit. I feel clearer now." This was John's way of thanking Greg for not letting him make a fool of himself, and the silver-haired man nodded as the two of them headed up to his and Mycroft's flat. A quick text to Mycroft had the two brothers coming down from the roof, and though Greg raised an eyebrow curiously, he didn't actually ask any questions.

"It was good talking to you, brother. Come by anytime. Gregory and I welcome either of you whenever you'd like to visit." Mycroft was gracious as ever, but it was the things he didn't say, rather than the things he did say, that made the most impact, as always.

"Come along then, John. It's time we head for home. I'm sure we'll have a case by tomorrow." Sherlock clapped his hands together enthusiastically and headed for the lift without waiting for his blogger, who trailed along behind with his hands tucked in his jacket pocket. A relatively quick ride home in the back of a black car, as Mycroft refused to let them use taxis if he could be of assistance, and the two of them were back home at Baker Street, both tired but thinking through the conversations of the night.

"I'm off to bed then, Sherlock. See you in the morning." John made for his bedroom, and was halfway up the stairs when Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"John?" He asked, a little tentatively. Surprised by that, with the consulting detective's usual blatant disregard for social etiquette and utter lack of shyness, John turned around, managing to do so without falling on his arse, for which he was grateful.

"Yeah, Sherlock?" John really needed to sleep, to get sober so he could wrap his mind around everything that had happened and figure out what he wanted to do about that. However, he knew he couldn't blow his flat mate off as he'd done the past half a year, not if he wanted things to truly change. And he did, he truly did.

"I just wanted to say… thank you. For tonight, and… for always, I suppose. You fuel my fire, but also keep me manageable, so I don't burn out of control and destroy everything. You make me human, real, not the empty shell I would otherwise be. So thank you. Sleep well." With that Sherlock took quick strides and disappeared into his own room, and John rubbed a hand over his face before heading up to his own room.

As John turned out the lights and fumbled his way into bed, it occurred to him that if he'd been trying to get a distance, he was going about it the wrong way. He was obviously not learning anything, because he was just as deeply in love with Sherlock as he had been before the Fall. Maybe that was the universe, trying to tell him something, but all he knew was that distance wasn't going to cure what he felt. He would have to make a decision, and either reach for his dreams or walk away from them once and for all.

And honestly? It really wasn't a choice. John was a soldier, through and through, and he'd never run from anything if he understood he was running at all. He sure was hell wasn't going to start now.


	7. Whataya Want From Me

**A/N: If you've been waiting for the moment when this story transitions from fairly pure angst to something a little more outwardly romantic, you've found it. No real smut yet, but it'll sure give you a lot of hope for the future, as far as that's concerned. The song is "Whataya Want From Me," by Adam Lambert, and I truly hope you enjoy!**

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Sherlock prided himself on his intelligence. He knew he was sharp as a blade and twice as cunning as a snake, which were some of the nicer things that people had said about him. The other things, though probably true, were not something he preferred to dwell on.

In any event, he knew the measure of his abilities, which was why he noticed, the next morning, when John's behavior had changed. It was a subtle difference, but definitely there. He might have explained it by the alcohol his flat mate had consumed the night before with Greg, but he'd never been one to suffer from hangovers, and didn't seem to be suffering from one this morning, either. Instead, he was humming softly to himself as he made them both cups of tea, but his eyes were nowhere near as clear and cheerful as they normally were. Instead, he seemed to be thinking quite deeply about something, as though he was imitating Sherlock. They seemed to have experienced some sort of role reversal, considering Sherlock was now watching him with more than a little concern.

Thinking back to his conversation with Mycroft, he decided to test the waters, and express a little of that. The worst thing that could happen was that John would tell him to piss off, and he'd certainly heard that before. The only thing was… it would hurt more, coming from John. Still, his brother had been right: John deserved honesty from him. If he didn't yet have the courage to offer his feelings up in their entirety, he could at least show something. If it was rejected, he would know better next time. If it wasn't… well, that would give him something to think about.

_You can be afraid, but don't let it get the best of you. Don't give up because you're afraid._

Sherlock repeated those words in his head as he steeled himself, and when John handed him his cuppa, he let their fingers brush, and forced himself to speak.

"Is everything okay, John? You seem quiet today." So unaccustomed was he to Sherlock asking him about himself that he nearly lost his hold on Sherlock's tea. Fortunately, the younger man had incredible reflexes, and caught it easily, before setting it aside and tugging John to sit beside him on the sofa.

"I am, yes. I'm just… thinking, I guess." John frowned, wishing he'd had an excuse ready. It mightn't have worked, but he'd given himself away so blatantly that there was no way that Sherlock _wouldn't_ pry a little bit, now.

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" Sherlock commented dryly, surprising both of them with an attempt at a joke. John chuckled a little, wondering if his slight discomfort was obvious. And if it was, why wasn't Sherlock pressing his advantage? If he didn't know any better, he'd say the younger man was just as lost as he was. That was absurd, of course… wasn't it?

"What do you want from me?" John's question burst out of him unexpectedly, but it was a fair question, after the conversation he'd engaged in the night before.

"I… I don't know how to answer that." Normally, Sherlock's mind was churning with information, but it simply went blank at John's too-direct question. He knew what he wanted from the older man, of course. _Everything_. What they had, and more. The only problem was that he wasn't sure how to say that.

"I guess I'm just asking… why is it that you have me here? I guess I just kind of wonder why you care about me, when you don't seem to let yourself care about much of anything. I'm nothing special. I don't get what the appeal is, for you."

"John…" Anger surging up at the idea that his best friend considered himself worth so little, Sherlock let himself go, revealing emotion in a way he rarely dared to. When he tried to express himself in words, it usually came out all jumbled up as he tried to articulate feelings he himself barely understood, but there was no way he was letting John think of himself as less.

"I am a freak. You are perfectly, blessedly, wonderfully normal, but you see me in a way that no one else does. Do not think for a second that it is me who is taking pity on you, because it is definitely the other way around. What do I want from you? You've already given me far more than I deserve. I should be asking you that, shouldn't I?"

John laughed a little bit at that, shaking his head.

"Do you know how many times you've saved my life? I was broken before I met you, and you brought me back to life just by making me a part of yours. And then, on top of that, you came back for me, against all odds, even though you could live a far more exciting life if you weren't dragging me around after you everywhere you go."

"John, do you even realize what you are to me? Do you have any idea at all? You are my conductor of light in so many ways, and even when I don't give a damn about myself, I care quite a lot about what happens to you. You give me a reason to be more than what I am, show me the difference between good and bad, and you've never, never given up on me. Do you even know how incredible you are?"

The doctor would have shaken his head again, but for the intensity in Sherlock's gaze, and the fact that he grabbed his upper arms and brought their faces rather close together so he could meet his gaze directly. They could taste each other's breath now, they were that close, but neither was thinking of pulling away now.

"I've often wondered why you've never given up on me," Sherlock said in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper, one hand coming up unconsciously to frame John's face, feeling the gentle brush of the hair at his nape under his fingertips. His hair was every bit as soft as it looked, he thought absently, not quite able to focus on thinking when the physical was, for the first time in his life, far more interesting.

"I couldn't bear to let you down." John managed, head tilting ever so slightly so that if either of them made a move, their mouths would fit together perfectly.

"I should let you slip away, John, but I am far too selfish. And I think it's too late for that anyway." He was whispering now, almost reverently, and John could taste mint, tea, and nicotine on the air between them. It was so tempting to simply lean in and claim Sherlock's mouth, but part of him was afraid to do so. He knew Sherlock had never done this before, and _needed_ to know that this was his choice.

"There's nothing wrong with you, Sherlock. You aren't selfish. But I think you might just be right; it does seem like it's too late for stepping away from it now." John stayed where he was, but gave in to the urge to touch, resting a hand on his thigh, halfway between his knee and hip. It wasn't an aggressive position, but neither was it timid. He could read the questions in Sherlock's eyes, and it was his definitive answer.

Sherlock's mouth felt entirely too dry, like he'd filled it with cotton, and he instinctively swiped his tongue across his lips, trying to moisten them. John's eyes locked on the action, and Sherlock realized he'd just accidentally indicated his interest. Somehow, it didn't seem like a bad thing, with John staring at him like they were the last two people alive… and he needed desperate confirmation that he was, in fact, alive, and not dreaming.

Not sure how to go about the whole process, Sherlock tried to think his way through it from movies that he'd seen and books he'd read. He realized he had a pathetically small store of knowledge when it came to this sort of thing, and promised himself that he would remedy that at the first opportunity. Now, however…

"I think you're going to have to teach me, John. I'm not sure why you'd want to, but if you do… Kiss me."

"Is that what you want?" John wanted more than anything to give into the need, but he needed to know for certain that it was what Sherlock wanted, wholeheartedly. There could be no rethinking this, once it happened.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice was a whisper of sound, nothing more, but the heat in his eyes left John with no doubt. _Yes_.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

There was no reason, John realized now, why he couldn't lean forward and take what was offered. But he also knew that this would be Sherlock's first kiss. That meant that he had to take care with him, in a way he wouldn't have with anyone else. Of course, since it was Sherlock, he would have done so anyway. The way he felt about Sherlock was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, and he knew without a doubt that he was truly, deeply, passionately in love. He wanted to express all of that, but knew not to let it all rush out at once. Instead, they would start with a kiss, and see where it led.

John closed the gap between their mouths gently but quickly, as if he was afraid that Sherlock would pull away if given too much time to think it over. He kept his mouth closed, simply brushing his lips over Sherlock's in several small passes before setting their lips together firmly. Sherlock let out a small sound, caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh, and John knew what the sound meant, even as his flat mate moved closer, letting their upper bodies rock against each other a little. _Surrender_.

But no matter what his body language was saying, John knew that Sherlock would need time to adjust to this. There was no way he was ready for where those little sounds would lead, and he wasn't experienced enough to know what it was he was really asking for. Sherlock was far too appealing for his own good, but he had already promised that he would not let him down. And that meant he could never take advantage of the trust between them, no matter how tempting it was.

He gentled the kiss when it started getting aggressive, letting his hand sweep into Sherlock's curls to hold him steady while their lips moved against each other's. He kept it sweet and soft, even when their tongues came into it, dancing instead of dueling, letting Sherlock experience the sensations without any kind of pressure behind it at all.

Sherlock wondered, briefly, if he was dying. But no, that was, he'd heard, typically painful, if it was this slow. He felt like he was melting, being drawn deeper and deeper into an abyss from which there would be no return… yet he knew he would have no regrets, if he never surfaced. Even if he was drowning, he saw no reason to struggle, because it was the single most pleasurable experience in his entire life.

Nothing else could touch this moment. No locked room mystery, no robbery, no criminal mastermind would ever top this experience, or ever have more of an impact on him than a simple kiss. He wondered how people could do this every day and ever find time for anything else. There was so much to process, yet he found himself unable to think at all, instead being swamped in the most delicious way by the drugging way John kissed him.

"Oh, my God." John finally found the strength to pull away, knowing that if he didn't do so soon, he would lose the ability to do so at all. No kiss had ever meant so much to him, and he knew, without a doubt, that he would never kiss another. Sherlock was meant to be his, and he was now ruined for anyone else. Judging by the awestruck expression on Sherlock's face, a look only John ever seemed to invoke from him, he felt the same way. That settled the ragged fear in the back of John's mind, and he signed in relief, resting their foreheads together.

"Was that… good?" Sherlock found the breath to ask, hoping it had hit John at least half as hard as it had hit him. If that was the case, then maybe he stood a chance at being able to keep him after all. He tried to remind himself that one kiss was hardly a declaration of undying love, but from him, it was. He'd never given this to anyone else, and never would. If he couldn't have John, he would have no one at all. But he really, really hoped he could keep this army doctor who'd stolen his heart away without even trying.

"That was better than good, Sherlock." John laughed shakily and carded a hand through Sherlock's curls, surprised but pleased when Sherlock leaned into his touch and closed his eyes, obviously enjoying it.

"I didn't know you enjoyed being petted." The doctor was pretty amused, but Sherlock only shrugged, not bothering to open his eyes. He wanted the memory of John's gentle, capable hand stroking through his hair to be preserved forever in his mind palace. It would, he was sure, be his happiest memory to date, along with the kiss.

"I don't welcome physical touch as a rule, but from you, it's incredibly pleasant."

"Is that so?" Definitely amused now, John pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's cheek before pulling away. "Well, if I promise to do this again later, can I coax you into some lunch?"

Sherlock grumbled a bit about it, but he actually did eat, even if it was only about half of what John consumed. Pleased to have him getting a little nourishment at all, John just waited until he was finished before heading back to the living room with a fresh cup of tea for both of them. He flicked on the crap telly just as the consulting detective entered the room, looking a bit unsure.

"It's okay, Sherlock. Come on and sit beside me." He did start out sitting, but he was experiencing a sense of lethargy not unlike his usual post-case high, and found the temptation to lie down was too great to ignore. He lay his head on John's lap gingerly, as if afraid of being pushed away, but then he felt those familiar fingers that had patched him up so many times moving gently through his mop of curls, and observed the telly silently for a while until his eyes began to drift shut. He was so comfortable he didn't even notice that he dozed off, though the smiling doctor who continued to take comfort in his presence definitely did.

Sherlock napped for a couple of hours, while John finished his cuppa and turned the volume down a little so as not to disturb the sleeping consulting detective. He reminded John of an angel in some ways—not a perfect one, certainly, but innocent in a way few people were past childhood. He wanted to cherish this man, and never give him a reason to doubt this.

Eventually the younger man woke, a little confused as to where he was until he felt his flat mate's gentle caresses. His fingers were still threading through those dark locks, and Sherlock wondered if he'd been doing it the entire time he'd been asleep. It was an oddly comforting thought. No one but Mycroft had ever really taken care of him before John, and even then, he'd never felt this… peaceful.

"You didn't wake me up." Sherlock said a little groggily, wondering what time it was. London was dark, but it was still winter, so nights were long enough that he couldn't get an accurate lock on the time just by that alone.

"You seemed like you needed sleep. And I was happy to stay here. You're beautiful when you sleep; did you know?" Seemingly unbothered by the fact that he'd just called another man beautiful, John smiled down at him when he rolled a little so he could look up at him, a small confused frown on his face.

"So you really have no problems with this at all? No lingering doubts about your sexuality, or any of that?"

"Nope. I wouldn't have let this get this far if I did." When John only continued to smile, Sherlock let himself relax, enjoying the sensation of being cared for.

Maybe he didn't know how to ask for exactly what he wanted, but it seemed like maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. John knew him better than anyone, and was pretty great at figuring Sherlock's mind out, even when he himself had no idea what was going on his head. And so far, things were working out beautifully. Now he just had to not screw it all up.


	8. All Of Me

**A/N: We all know that, since John is a soldier, he kind of considers it his job to keep Sherlock from being killed. I wanted to take a moment to explore what would mean with the two of them in a relationship. The song is "All of Me," by John Legend, and I promise thing will get sunnier after this chapter. Please enjoy, and if you could take a moment to review, that'd be lovely. It's nice to hear your thoughts. **

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"You are _insane!_" John practically snarled the words at Sherlock as the two of them finally pinned their suspect against the wall. He was a former assassin, and though he said he had said during the interview that he had long since retired from that work, Sherlock hadn't been so sure. And with three Londoners dead already, he hadn't seen fit to let the man go unwatched, no matter what the Yard had said about understaffing and priority suspects.

Because the man was in his sixties, Sally Donovan had determined that he couldn't possibly be the man they were looking for, no matter what Sherlock had said. And of course, he just _had_ to prove her wrong, didn't he? So here they were, holding an old man in a frankly disgusting alleyway against old, crumbling bricks, waiting for Greg and his team to come pick the man up.

Sherlock had surprised him, John had to give him that. But the way he'd done so was incredibly reckless. It wasn't just his own life he'd risked, but to be honest, that wasn't what John was upset about. He was upset that Sherlock had taken the risk himself, not _knowing_ that John was with him, because he'd told his doctor to stay home.

The former captain, of course, hadn't wanted him to take the case in the first place. He remembered all too well the last assassin they'd come into contact with, and wanted no part of that life again. Sherlock had given every indication of listening to him… right up until the point he'd declared that he was going out to get the milk for the first time in his life. John hadn't believed him, and had been right not to, obviously. He'd followed him and pulled him back out of the way just in time to dodge a bullet fired by a rather startled sniper.

Their suspect had then bolted out the open window onto the fire escape, and Sherlock had charged headlong after him, leaving John with little choice but to do the same, drawing his own pistol just in case it became necessary. They'd done quite a lot of running to reach their current location, where he'd pulled a knife that John had been forced to wrestle away from him after he'd slashed at Sherlock.

Now there was a gash across the consulting detective's shirt, a red flush on his cheeks, and a sort of angry hardness in his eyes that had formed after John had yelled at him.

"Oh, I'm the crazy one? I'm not the one who follows a high-functioning sociopath around and expects him to act like everyone else. You are out of your mind, John, if you think I'm suddenly just going to change who and what I am!"

The outburst was so unlike Sherlock that John nearly forgot he was holding a suspect, which quite nearly allowed him to squirm away. Fortunately he decided to slowly test his captor's interest, which gave John time to refocus. He could fight with Sherlock later, he supposed. Right now, the important thing was keeping him safe.

Greg and his team showed up about ten minutes later, during which time neither man had said a word. John felt dark, ugly anger rising up in him when the sniper started screaming profanities at Sherlock, but the younger man simply pulled his coat tight around himself and swept away after murmuring to Gregory the location of the man's rifle—which, he was certain, was their murder weapon. Instead of waving for a taxi he just started walking, not bothering to wait for John.

Deciding both their tempers were running a bit high, John decided to go for a walk and cool off a bit before heading home. It would give them both time to think about what had happened, and deal with it in their own heads before saying things they would regret.

While John was walking around London using his own smaller version of Sherlock's mental map of the city, Sherlock was curled up on his bed trying very hard to breathe steadily, and not cry.

It was in moments like this that Moriarty's words came back to him. _I will burn the heart out of you!_ John was so much more than a flat mate and sort-of boyfriend. Normally, he was a sort of muse for Sherlock, who inspired his brain to work in top form. Occasionally, he was a target, used by others to get at the consulting detective, but never really in danger. Today, he'd been a distraction, the only thing that could make Sherlock hesitate or lose his complete focus. And they both could have died as a result.

Sherlock wouldn't blame John for hating him, after what had just happened, but if he was honest with himself, he was upset with the shorter man. There hadn't been a need for him to come along. He'd known that the game would be dangerous, and had known, too, that John didn't approve. So he'd given him an easy out, so easy he wouldn't have even had to know what was happening. But he'd followed him, and put himself at risk, and that was inexcusable. Sherlock might not care much what happened to himself, but he cared a great deal about the man who, he was quickly realizing, was his biggest weakness.

And yet, John was a strength, too. He was diminished without him, as was evidenced by the fact that he didn't even feel stable enough, without him here, to go stitch himself up. He knew John assumed the knife had only sliced his shirt, but it had actually reached skin, and drawn a thin, if mostly shallow, line of blood diagonally across his chest. What hurt more than anything, though, was the way John had shouted at him, and he could still hear those words ringing in his ears.

He needed to keep John safe. The sniper had been hunting ex-army men, which was why Sherlock had taken the case, even though it was technically beneath him. He hadn't wanted John to be at risk in any way, and that was why he'd had no choice but to hunt the man down himself, since the police were mostly incompetent. He hadn't had the evidence Greg needed to convince his people that Sherlock was right, and the sniper had been leaving a trail of false evidence designed to incriminate another man.

It had all been for John. He didn't seem to realize what he meant to Sherlock, but the consulting detective was all too aware of it. Sherlock knew John wasn't perfect, but somehow, he was perfect for him. He rounded out Sherlock's sharp edges and made him a better person, and Sherlock would have given anything for him to understand that.

But John disapproved of him. He was angry with Sherlock for doing his job. He'd never been angry about it before. Sherlock wondered if it was because of the changes in their relationship, and if so, what he could do about it. His brother had never berated Gregory for being a DI, and as far as he knew, Greg had never screamed at Mycroft for doing what he did, either. Why had John gotten so angry? Was he supposed to act like one of his simpering girlfriends now that they were together?

Sherlock's heart was breaking, at the realization that he might well have to choose between the career that kept him from going insane and the man he loved more than himself. It really wasn't fair. John had known who he was going into it. If he'd had a problem, he should have addressed it, or at least shouldn't have let things get this far. Would Sherlock really have to choose between the only two things that truly made him happy? How could he ever make that decision?

Swallowing back a fresh wave of tears, he decided to handle this problem the same way he'd handled nearly every other emotional issue he'd faced over the past couple of decades. He would get some distance, and approach the issue several steps back from it. This time, however, he wouldn't be alone in that.

The first thing he did after standing up was change into a new shirt. He frowned at the black silk that was now destroyed, both by the knife and his own blood, before tossing it in his small garbage bin and locating John's first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet. Not quite as good at doctoring himself as John, he nonetheless managed a sufficient wrap that would keep the wound from destroying another shirt before selecting another, also black, and putting it on.

Heading into the living room, he calculated that John would be away for at least another hour. He went to Tesco's to pick up some milk and left it in the fridge, his own form of a note. It would, at least, reassure John that he was still alive and well. He doubted the other man would notice his absence for at least a couple of days, the way he'd been acting earlier. Sherlock grabbed his violin and packed it away neatly, shoved a few changes of clothes in a duffel, and headed out the door before he could change his mind.

Forgoing a taxi, because he wanted to be an anonymous nobody instead of the semi-famous Sherlock Holmes just then, he walked all the way to his brother's flat, barely noticing the freezing cold temperatures. He'd remembered his scarf, gloves, and hat, and was surprised, when he entered the building where Mycroft and Greg lived while in London, to find his teeth were chattering a little.

Fortunately, the doorman recognized him, and let him head straight up. It hadn't actually occurred to him to call ahead to either his brother or his brother-in-law, and he knew that Greg, at least, would be at the Yard doing paperwork. He sighed as he got off the lift, prepared for a long wait, but Mycroft opened the door for him and gestured for him to come inside almost as soon as his feet hit the plush carpet of the small hallway.

"Sherlock, come inside and let me take a look at that wound." Tone full of concern he had rarely let himself show before, Mycroft wrapped his hand around his younger brother's wrist and pulled him inside the flat, sitting him on the couch and gesturing for him to unbutton his shirt while he went to go get his own first-aid kit. A little amused, despite the sorrow weighing down his heart, Sherlock obliged him, letting his brother do a surprisingly professional patch job.

He needed a couple of stitches over the deeper part, which Mycroft gave him skillfully, but mostly he just needed a decent bandage that was applied carefully, rather than hastily. Sherlock had been more emotional than he'd thought earlier, and his work had been shaky at best.

"I take it you've been spying with the CCTV again," Sherlock commented dryly, earning a small shrug and a grin that said Mycroft wasn't at all embarrassed by that fact. Then his expression sobered again, and Sherlock knew exactly what he was going to say before the words left his mouth.

"I saw John's reaction to your close call. The rest of the world treats you like that, but John should know better." Mycroft's voice was quiet and calm, but his eyes revealed his worry. He knew, probably better than anyone else, what John's harsh words would have done to his horribly insecure little brother. He'd been the same, and Gregory, he was proud to admit, had handled it better. Though he did remember one incident in which he'd reacted strongly to Mycroft being wounded. The memory made him smile, deep inside, though it didn't show on the outside.

"Yes, I would have thought so. Evidently not. I thought he could handle everything I am, but if he can't accept all of me… well." Blushing a little, though it barely showed since his face was still a little red from the cold winds that had lashed at him during his walk, he spoke. "Do you think I could… stay here for a couple of days? I could go to a hotel, but I… I couldn't exactly keep an eye on John from there. And no place in the city is safer, arguably, so this should suit your obsessive need to keep me safe, if you have the space."

Sherlock's voice was shy, and just a bit proud, and Mycroft saw a very clear echo of the boy who'd been so proud to tell him about the squirrel he'd dissected during his school lunch break instead of eating. It had been, that little boy had told him, far more interesting than the boring sandwich Mycroft had packed for him. Delighted that Sherlock had found a hobby that seemed to truly interest him that wasn't extremely destructive, Mycroft hadn't even minded the insult, too pleased to see his brother happy.

He felt much the same now. It had taken a lot for Sherlock to reach out to him, but he'd done so, instead of simply retreating into his music or the cases. He was dealing with the situation in his own way, even though he was running a little bit, and Mycroft knew the real reason he wanted to stay. Sherlock was trying to figure out a way to reconcile the two things he needed more than anything else in the world, and had come to his big brother for help. He would be damned if he'd let him down.

"Let's put your stuff in the guest room. I'll put in a quick call to Gregory, and have him bring home takeaway for three." Mycroft left Sherlock to settle in about the same time that John was returning to Baker Street.

Out of habit, John went straight to the kitchen when he came home, and he prepared two cups of tea. Sherlock's door was closed, which surprised him a little. He'd expected the genius to be waiting for him on the sofa, but maybe this was better. John could have a little time to get settled in the flat before they talked.

As he sat down in his chair, he sighed, sipping at his tea absently. He set Sherlock's by his usual chair for when he emerged.

He knew, now, that he'd overreacted earlier. The idea of Sherlock in danger had been almost too much to bear, and the last victim of the sniper had looked too much like the tall man for his comfort. Of course the genius hadn't listened to him, when he'd asked him to skip this case. John hated facing off against snipers, after everything that had gone down with Moriarty and his right-hand man Moran, and had had a bad feeling about the whole situation. It was why Sherlock's out of character behavior had lead him to follow him, and good job that, because the younger man might well have gotten hurt if he hadn't been there.

Looking back, he realized he'd distracted him by his presence. But he couldn't have known that when he'd followed him, because Sherlock hadn't explained. He didn't normally, and John usually didn't have a problem with it, but things had changed… and they hadn't even discussed it. So Sherlock would have assumed that nothing but their interactions in the flat would have changed. And John had cocked everything up by jumping the gun and treating him like one of his helpless girlfriends. He was used to playing hero, but he'd never been that way with Sherlock, and he occurred to him that starting now would be ridiculous, as well as demeaning for the proud consulting detective.

Loving Sherlock made everything difficult. That beautiful mind of his gave John whiplash, and he wished that he could have better insight, so that he wouldn't have yelled at him for being who he was. Sherlock had to feel betrayed right now, which meant an apology was in order… after he finished his tea, and finished thinking his way through it all.

There were so many reasons John loved Sherlock, it was hard to keep track. Everything from the awkward, innocent way he showed affection to the smart mouth that tossed out acerbic comments at everyone but John was just another reason they completed each other. He would get dizzy turning himself in circles trying to keep up with the younger man, but for all that Sherlock pushed everyone else away, he somehow seemed to pull John that much closer. He did care, and never tried to make John feel like less than he was.

John was a soldier, and a doctor, which meant that one of his predominant characteristics was his need to protect those he cared about. Sherlock didn't attack him for that, and hadn't even done so earlier. What he had accused him of, and quite correctly, was treating him differently now. He'd tried to treat Sherlock like he was ordinary, and that had been a violation of Sherlock's trust in him. He was supposed to support the genius, not hinder him.

Having resolved himself to confessing his motivations and apologizing for his actions, John felt his lips twitch upward almost of their own accord. It was quite the turnabout, he thought, when it was Sherlock telling _him_ when his actions were A Bit Not Good, or More Than A Bit Not Good, as was currently the case.

Rising, he walked to the closed door and knocked gently. When there was no answer for a few minutes he frowned, and tried again. After another attempt he got concerned—was Sherlock really angry with him?—and opened the door. The bed was undisturbed from when he'd made it earlier that day, some clothes were missing from the closet, and his violin case was absent.

John dropped the cup of tea he'd brought for his flat mate and gasped as his mind drew the inevitable conclusion—Sherlock was gone.


	9. Half-Life

**A/N: Usually it's Sherlock who does strange, relationship-risking behavior (or so I've seen in most fanfics) so I thought it fitting to explore the other side of that in our last chapter. In this one, John gets to eat a little crow. The song is "Half-Life," by Duncan Sheik, and I hope you enjoy it. :)**

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John had to suppress the urge to panic. Sherlock couldn't have gotten far. He'd only been out walking for a couple of hours, and there had been milk in the fridge. That was fairly worrisome, actually—that was the sort of thing Sherlock would leave as a goodbye present, just to be a smart ass. But it didn't read like a permanent goodbye, if only because the skull was still on the mantle, and most of his things remained in the flat.

There had to be a logical way to go about locating him again, but to be perfectly honest, John wasn't in any condition to come up with it. It was late now, as it had nearly been approaching dusk when John had come home. He'd been thinking for a while, and hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep lately. It was after midnight by the time he came to the conclusion that he wasn't going to be of any use to himself that night. Resigned to waiting until the next day to start trying to fix what he'd broken, John lay down on the couch, taking comfort in the faint scent of Sherlock lingering on the fabric.

When he woke up, the sun streaming through the window told him that it was already afternoon. He hadn't meant to sleep that long, but he felt oddly awake now, and there was a strange bubble of hope rising inside of him that defied his current situation. He knew why he'd reacted the way he had the day before. Fear for Sherlock had overridden his good sense. Now he had to decide how to apologize for that, as well as make sure it never happened again.

John had good control over his instincts, as it was something he'd had to practice for his time in the army. As long as he remained aware of why he had a greater need than ever before to protect his partner, he should be able to suppress the urge to react poorly when he took a calculated risk—and it was Sherlock. Every risk he took was calculated out beforehand. Now John had to focus on the risk he himself was taking. He was going to have to be painfully honest, if he wanted to make amends.

There would be no more pretending that the idea of Sherlock getting hurt didn't terrify him, but he would have to deal with it unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life only half alive. And without Sherlock, it would only be a half-life. Nothing was right if Sherlock wasn't beside him, and if he had to swallow his pride in a major way to get him back, he would do that.

Picking up his phone, he texted Greg to ask if he'd heard from Sherlock. He received a phone call not two minutes later, but it wasn't from the man he'd called. He couldn't say he wasn't expecting it, however. With grim determination turning his expression into that of the soldier he'd been, and still was when the occasional called for it, he answered.

"Hello, Mycroft. Have the two of you seen Sherlock?"

"I've seen quite a lot of things over the past few days, Doctor Watson." Mycroft's voice was bordering on frigid, and John winced a little. They'd progressed to a first name basis somewhere around the perfectly awful lunch party where Mycroft and Sherlock's parents had fought with Greg's, and a return to the past meant that Mycroft was pissed. He knew, now, that it wasn't disinterest that spawned that tone. Normally polite, the politician pulled on the Ice Man façade only when he was gearing up for battle. From one soldier to another, John appreciated his fierce desire to protect his family.

However, that didn't mean he was going to let the younger man walk all over him.

"I'm sure you have. So Sherlock's there, then." There was a long moment of silence, before a slightly less frosty tone of voice sounded.

"I don't see how that would be any of your business, all things considered." Despite the tone, it was the confirmation John had been looking for. Mycroft was giving him a chance to show up and grovel, he realized, but making it clear that he would have to bring his A game. The soldier smiled at the challenge.

"I know I fucked up, Mycroft. I do plan to fix it." John hung up, knowing the other man wouldn't want to waste any more time on small talk, and considered how to apologize. He considered, and dismissed, the idea of bringing the traditional apology of a dozen roses. That was something he would do for one of his old girlfriends, and that was definitely the wrong vibe to send. He needed something uniquely Sherlock.

Snapping his fingers and letting out a small laugh when he came up with an idea he considered perfect. It might take a bit of time for him to find exactly what he was looking for, but it was worth it. Sherlock was definitely worth it.

John headed out instantly, not wanting to waste any more time. It took him several tries, but in the seventh shop he checked, he found what he was looking for.

Sherlock had spent the entire morning staring moodily out the window, arms crossed over his chest, tapping one foot in perfect time with a song only he could hear. Mycroft had worked from home so he could be there if Sherlock wanted to talk and it was a little before noon when he did finally speak, for the first time since waking and moving to the living room before dawn.

"I feel wrong, while he's not here. I don't understand it, Mycroft. I was always fine on my own." Frowning, the consulting detective had turned to look at his brother, sadness, fear, and puzzlement mixing together in his eyes. Mycroft had walked over and put a brotherly hand on his shoulder, murmuring about how human emotion was something of a mystery to everyone, and that the greatest puzzles were often the ones most worth solving.

Now, Mycroft frowned at his phone, while Greg prepared supper in the kitchen and Sherlock watched him. The silver-haired DI had forwarded the text he'd received onto his husband without breaking stride, and Mycroft had responded almost instantly.

"That was John, wasn't it?" The question was so soft it was barely audible, and the older brother could see emotions whirling in his eyes like a hurricane was lurking inside his head. He figured the analogy wasn't too far off, considering the way his own brain worked when at full capacity.

"Yes." Seeing no reason to hide the information from his brother, just in case he did want to disappear after all, Mycroft gave him the option, surprised when Sherlock's lips twitched a little in amusement.

"You let him know I was here. Not very nicely, but you know John is clever enough to have gotten your drift. You think I should hear him out."

"I do. I think you deserve to hear what he has to say, and figure out what you want to do about it. John has been good for you, and to you, for a long time, now. One mistake shouldn't negate that. Everyone deserves a second chance. I would know. Still, it really is up to you. I won't hold it against you either way, and I wouldn't assist him in finding you if you decided to disappear, even if it was only up to the roof until he went away."

Sherlock retreated to his mind palace to consider the matter, and supper was ready by the time he emerged, continuing the conversation where it had left off. Mycroft was used to this, and Greg was getting used to it thanks to his Holmes.

"I miss him."

"Does that mean you're prepared to forgive him?" Greg contributed to the conversation as he dished out spaghetti on three plates, giving Sherlock a little less without having to be told. Mycroft had filled him in on what was going on while Sherlock had been thinking, and he was fairly sure he could keep up with this discussion.

"I don't know." Sherlock frowned. "Normally he's the one who has to forgive me for doing something idiotic. He still hasn't forgiven me for the Fall, however. At least, I don't think so. I'm pretty sure that was what his… issue was. But I'm still not sure where that leaves me, as far as all of it's concerned." Greg's question was actually a very good one, and he wanted to give it as complete an answer as possible. "This is the only time he's ever been angry with me like this that I didn't trigger on purpose. I don't really know how I feel about it, let alone what I want to do about it. I think it might depend on what John does next."

"What do you think he's going to do?" Mycroft knew how well Sherlock knew John, and knew he could probably predict what the older man might do next. Unfortunately, however, this was an unprecedented situation, and thus, Sherlock would have to base his analysis entirely off John's emotional state. He was, of course, drawing a blank.

"I really don't know. I can't deduce, or even guess. If I were one of his girlfriends, he would be picking up roses right now to bring over, but by now, he'll have figured out that that would be a poor idea, with all things considered, so he'll attempt to come up with some other plan, if he's going to try anything at all… after that, I really couldn't say."

Greg blinked, but Mycroft briefly squeezed his shoulder, understanding quite well. Then he smiled at his husband.

"It's just like when you and I were courting, my love. For someone who should be so easily predictable, there were times when I just didn't know what you were doing. Like that time you left after we… spent the night together, I thought you were gone for good, but instead, you gave me a chance. Perhaps that is why I think that your John deserves another chance, Sherlock. Greg had to give me more than one chance to prove that I was just as committed to our relationship as he was, but because he didn't give up on me, I found a way to trust in him, and even though it was hard, we found our way there eventually."

"And I have never been happier in my life. You were worth every second chance, Mycroft, because you cared enough to keep trying when anyone else, with or without your background, would have just thrown in the towel." Mycroft reached over and took his hand, meeting his gaze with eyes so full of love, Sherlock could only stare. His normally reserved older brother _never_ let himself be so unguarded before Gregory, and it still caught the younger brother off guard on occasion.

"Does that mean the two of you think I should forgive John, then?" Sherlock was a little worried he was about to watch something he _very much did not want to see_, but when he spoke both men instantly turned to him, concern on both their faces. They glanced at one another again, then back at him, and obviously Mycroft was silently elected as spokesperson, because he was the one who answered.

"We think that you should do what you feel is right. The important thing, Sherlock, is to ask yourself not whether or not he should be forgiven, but whether or not you want to forgive him. You should figure out which answer seems best for you, and act accordingly. There really is no right or wrong answer, when it comes to matters of the heart. Gregory and I were merely observing that if you do truly care for someone, they can hurt you much more easily, but they can also make you happier than you ever dreamed possible if you can handle the bad times as well as the good."

"And there will be plenty of good times, if John cares about you back."

"I guess we shall have to see, then." Sherlock set his fork aside, having finished most of his portion, and rose gracefully to dispose of his own dishes, something he never would have done at Baker Street. He then pulled on his coat, scarf, and gloves and headed up to the roof, both because he wanted to give the couple privacy and because he needed some time to himself.

That was where John found him about twenty minutes later, after half an hour later, after a arguing with Mycroft and Greg for the last ten minutes about whether or not he should be allowed to talk to Sherlock. Mycroft went to check with him, on the premise of checking his phone, before receiving a simple "yes" to his query as to whether John should be let through or not. He accepted his brother's words without argument, but his expression was a warning as he showed John to his private set of stairs.

John heeded it, and was quiet as he walked over and took a seat beside Sherlock. Despite the season, Mycroft had put a pair of lawn chairs up there for the nights when they wanted to talk and didn't want to sit on the concrete, and since it hadn't snowed since he'd put them up, they were currently dry. Sherlock was lying out on one, hands steepled while he stared up at the cloudy sky, and he didn't physically react when John sat down.

When the older man cleared his throat, however, he knew he had to say or do something.

"Yes?" His voice was whisper soft, carrying to John's ears only because the wind had died away to nothing now in the darkening twilight. He wasn't quite ready to look at the army doctor yet, so instead kept his gaze on the sky, where bleak, hazy clouds obscured the dying winter sun.

"I need to apologize for earlier. I was out of line, and I will do my best to make sure it doesn't happen again. You aren't some floosy who can't be trusted to look after yourself, and I know you understand the potential consequences of what you do, and that you're careful. Earlier, I think I was just thinking about the fact that the last time you left me behind with a lie I ended up thinking you were dead for near to three years. Also, our changed dynamic_ did_ make me treat you differently—you were right about that. You were also right to point out that it shouldn't have, and that I need to trust you the way you always trust me. I can't promise not to make the same mistake again, but I can promise to try to do better."

When Sherlock didn't say anything or look at him for a long moment, John sighed and withdrew a square box from within his jacket. It was just about the length of Sherlock's hand from middle fingertip to wrist, and both about as wide and deep as his palm. Intrigued by the glimpse he caught from the corner of his eye, he had to remind himself not to move, waiting.

"I got you something that reminded me of you, or us. I thought about getting you roses, but you're not one of my girlfriends, and I wanted something as unique as you are. So I searched around and found a place that made exactly what I wanted. It took me a little longer to get over here than I wanted it to, but I wanted to be sure that I could apologize for all the ways I cocked this up by the time I got here, so I figure it was worth the extra time."

Extending the box toward Sherlock, he waited until the consulting detective, intrigued despite himself, sat up and opened it with gentle fingers, shaking only slightly in the cold thanks to his gloves. He then sat, stunned, staring at the object in the box.

"It's far more lasting and enduring than any ordinary rose, but it's also incredibly fragile, for different reasons. It needs to be treated with care, and polished from time to time to keep shining, but it won't wilt or die from lack of sunlight or water. All it really needs is to be treated as if it's something precious and its beauty will never diminish."

Inside the box was a single fragile glass rose, with petals the color of blood and delicate thorns, pulled from the slender stem, tipped subtly in the same color. The stem itself was clear, but incredibly thin veins of green wisped through it, getting deeper until the sepal, which was a deep, verdant green, as it would be for a natural plant. Sherlock stared at it wonderingly before picking it up with careful fingers, examining it in what remained of the daylight. His eyes were wide as he studied it carefully.

"The owner of the shop used to live in Ireland, and she blew her own glass from childhood on. Now, she has a small shop where she makes one of a kind pieces, all from her own imagination, and sells them herself. I had to explain why I wanted this rose, first, and we must have talked for half an hour before she agreed to sell it to me." When Sherlock only continued to stroke the deceptively delicate petals with the fingers of his unoccupied hand, John started to feel a little desperate.

"Say something, won't you?" John's words jolted Sherlock, who had been lost in the simple, fragile beauty of the glass creation in his hand. With painstaking care he replaced it in the box, wrapped it and closed the lid, and then set it aside before rising, grabbing John's scarf, and pulling him in for a tight hug.

"Thank you." The deep baritone of Sherlock's voice felt oddly intimate right up against his ear, especially when those ridiculously sensual lips brushed against his earlobe, and John was grateful that his sense of relief was so complete, or else he knew he would have been reacting inappropriately to the younger man's closeness.

"You mean too much to me, Sherlock, for me to lose you over something so stupid if I could make amends. I know you're not really keen on this whole emotion thing, and I know I probably made it even harder for you by acting like a Neanderthal protecting his mate, but if you can find it in you to forgive me for being stupid, I'll do pretty much anything to regain your trust."

"There is actually little proof, that I know of, that Neanderthal men were particularly overprotective of their mates. But I understand the sentiment you are attempting to convey." Sherlock added the last hastily before John could get himself worked up, and he even found himself smiling a little. It was strange to be on this side of things, he thought, but not necessarily bad. They were both going to screw up in this relationship, because it was different for both of them. John would be just as lost as he was.

And even though it probably should have been scary, the thought was actually comforting. It meant that without each other's help, they would be lost, and would likely break everything they were building. But together… together, as long as they both kept trying, there was a chance that they could have what Greg and Mycroft did. And that was a chance worth taking, as far as he was concerned.

"You may have regained my trust just by coming after me, if we're being completely honest. There was a part of me that feared you would give up on me like everyone else has. But you didn't. I need this too, John. Don't worry. I forgive you for overreacting, though if you do that again, we are going to have some serious words." Sherlock tried to keep his voice stern and lecture as John frequently did to him, but the effect was somewhat ruined when, as he pulled back so he could look at the shorter man, his lips curved a little. "Of course, this does give us an opportunity to, as they say, 'kiss and make up.' I have it on good authority that it adds a certain spark to the gesture."

John could only laugh, before deciding to let Sherlock have his little experiment. He had, after all, come here prepared to do whatever it took to win Sherlock back. It was just a nice bonus that it was pleasurable for the both of them.


	10. In The Next Room

**A/N: Wow, these two have some of the worst communication issues of any characters I've ever played with. Part of me wishes they'd just talk about things, and lay it all out up front, but that's not really true to character for either of them. So since they haven't really discussed doing "couple things" in public, this chapter will explain how they get around to it (putting the cart before the horse as always) to the tune of "In The Next Room," by Neon Trees. (Also, more than one of their songs is really perfect for this story, so you will be seeing them again.) I hope you enjoy, and if you find time, do let me know how you feel about it! Questions, comments, concerns, it's just really lovely to hear from you!**

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It drove John a little crazy, if he was to be perfectly honest. Things at Baker Street had been great, since Sherlock had agreed to come back from Greg and Mycroft's place, and the consulting detective had not once brought up the incident when they argued over things like the milk or the bills. They were pretty much back to the way they'd been before the Fall, now, and he supposed life couldn't be better, all except for one thing.

John was used to claiming those he considered his, and he and Sherlock hadn't talked, at all, about how they were to behave in public. In fact, they hadn't actually kissed since the rooftop, considering by the time they both got home, and got some sleep, another case had summoned them to the streets of London. Two days had passed, and the body, which had been found when a snowdrift had melted in a little heat snap, had officially consumed all of Sherlock's attention.

The doctor would be lying if he said he wasn't jealous, though it did feel strange, and wrong, to be jealous of a corpse. But when he'd watched those graceful fingers dance over the frozen skin, he'd wished that they were on him instead, playing him like that damnably sexy violin that had always been something of a torment to John, no matter how nice the sound of it was.

It messed with his mind, how Sherlock could be so incredibly _hot_ just doing things other people would have considered repulsive. John knew that it was exclusively transport to Sherlock during the case, and that he couldn't possibly know the effect he had when he bent low to investigate what appeared to be a bruise on the victim's rib, leaving his arse sticking up in the air. Even his impatience was somehow alluring, because it made those sharp eyes sparkle before he darted off to catch a cab or chase down a lead without so much as an explanation.

Sherlock, of course, had forgotten about anything even remotely resembling romance as soon as the case had come up. It was an interesting one, though he was coming close to solving it. The two of them were currently in the morgue, John sipping at his third cup of coffee while Sherlock's first cup sat untouched on the desk, having long since gone cold.

"Everything okay in here, boys?" Mousy little Molly Hooper pitched her question more toward John than Sherlock, her normal friendliness putting a smile on her face even though she was always nervous around Sherlock. John had to fight back the urge to put a possessive hand on the consulting detective's shoulder when she glanced over at him longingly and fought back a sigh—no matter how sharp his tongue was when directed toward her normally, she couldn't seem to kill her crush—but he refrained because she was a nice girl.

"Everything's fine, Molly." John knew his own voice sounded a little strained, but it was better to lie, instead of admitting to the girl that while she had no chance, he was frustrated because his own chances were apparently secondary to those of the corpse his partner was currently investigating. He was only on the other side of the room, but he might as well have been on the moon for how much attention he'd paid to John during the case.

"Are you sure? Sherlock looks… crankier than usual." John had to bite back a scathing comment about how Molly wasn't really an expert on the moods of Sherlock Holmes, but he knew that the girl had been a good friend to his flat mate during his absence, and had to refrain. She was very nice, and he knew his issue really wasn't with her _or_ her unrequited crush, no matter how annoying said crush was.

"He's just dying to solve the puzzle." _And I_, John thought, _am dying to break through his absolute focus on that body and get him to remember I exist. _It was a pipe dream at best, and he knew that. He had to assume that Sherlock didn't want anyone outside the walls of Baker Street to know about them, with the exception of his brother and Greg, considering they'd already rowed once about John treating him differently.

Still, he wanted badly to let loose his control and go over and claim a kiss, if only to prove to Molly that that incredible man belonged to _him_, and no one else.

Realizing he'd finished his coffee, John asked Molly to accompany him while he went into the little office to make some more. She did, a little reluctantly, and John was relieved because he did not want to leave those two alone together. He could only imagine Molly would take the opportunity to try and flirt with Sherlock again, which might result in John losing his temper.

Sherlock heard the two of them talking in the next room as John prepared his coffee, and found himself suppressing a sigh. He knew he wasn't nearly as focused on the case as he should be, but if he was honest with himself, that didn't bother him half so much as the fact that John hadn't even kissed him since the case had started. He knew he'd been a little distracted, but surely John couldn't be _that_ irritated with him, that he would withhold those lovely kisses and moments of closeness.

But Sherlock had heard the annoyance in his voice as he'd talked with Molly, and could even hear it now, and it was killing him. The urge to just go in there and kiss John silly was hard to handle, but he doubted the shorter man would be up for it.

Even walking down the street together had been something of a torment to Sherlock the past couple of days. He imagined there would be a fairly decent scandal if he simply grabbed John and started snogging him right out there on the sidewalk for everyone to see, but John had been extremely reserved since the start of the case. Sherlock knew he'd lied about everything being "fine, just fine" more than once, and every time, it made Sherlock retreat a little further into his shell.

Did John not want to make them public? Was he just upset with Sherlock for being Sherlock? The genius really didn't understand emotions, and he knew that was why he was having such a hard time reading his partner, but he had to figure that John didn't _want_ him knowing what was up with him, if he wasn't volunteering it like he usually did. And why wouldn't he want Sherlock to know how he was feeling?

Sherlock had to work hard to force his thoughts back to the case at hand. He was incredibly close to figuring it out, and after the case, he promised himself he'd make John sit down and talk about the frankly chilly distance between them.

John and Molly walked back into the room then, and it was a natural reaction for Sherlock to turn to look at his blogger, something he couldn't quite help. He forced his attention immediately back to his work, but he knew, from the stillness that suddenly surrounded John, that he'd caught the little lapse.

When Sherlock had glanced over, he'd looked a little anxious, and confused, and beneath that there had been a little bit of fear, all of which John had caught and processed in the split second, though he himself was confused as to the reasoning for it. Did he think John was going to cheat on him with Molly or something?

No, he knew that wasn't right. He started thinking back over the past couple of days, and realized that there had been several of these small glances, all of which he'd only kind of noticed. Had Sherlock asked him a question he'd never answered or something? That didn't fit, since Sherlock would simply have kept asking until John had answered, so he cast around for another explanation… and the one he came up with actually startled a gasp out of him.

Fortunately, Molly and Sherlock didn't notice the small sound, because it happened at the split second that Sherlock let out a cry of triumph, spinning around and clapping his hands together with joy so transparent on his face that it made John's heart twist.

"I've got it! The murder weapon was an icicle! That's why the victim drowned, despite the stab wound in her neck. And I know just who would have thought to use such a weapon. He wrote a book involving the exact same weapon, after all!" Sherlock was extremely happy to have solved the case. Now, he could get to the bottom of far more important matters. Of course, they did still have to make sure the Yard got the killer…

Moving at his usual fast pace, Sherlock left the morgue and went to get a taxi. John, a little red-faced, only caught up with him when the taxi was screeching to the curb, and Sherlock felt a pang of uncertainty. Should he have waited for John?

"I told Molly we were done with that corpse now, so she can have the family make all the arrangements. We were done with it, right?"

"Yes. Nothing more to be learned there. Now it's just the chase left!" Sherlock spoke as briskly as ever, trying to cover up his nervousness. Sitting in the back of the cab, they were closer than they'd been for hours, and the blatantly sexual attraction he felt toward John made it difficult to focus on what remained of the case, when he would have much rather focused his attention on the doctor who always stood steadfastly at his side.

"Right. Are we hunting this one down ourselves, then, or are we at least going to let Greg know so he can make it a legal arrest?" John's tone was dry, but amused enough that Sherlock felt relief. He wasn't irritated here, away from the morgue. Maybe the bodies had been irritating him? No, that was stupid; he was a doctor. He'd seen a number of dead bodies without flinching, even before he'd met Sherlock, and never been annoyed with them before. The only logical explanation left, then, was Molly… Oh.

Sherlock had to resist the urge to smile when the answer finally came to him. John had been jealous of Molly, and his agitation had only increased when he'd reminded himself that there was no reason to be jealous. But he was a territorial man, and Sherlock had seen how he'd reacted when other men had paid more than decent attention toward even his casual girlfriends. How much more intense would those feelings be, he asked himself, if John had more of an investment in the person he was with?

It was such an obvious answer that Sherlock was kicking himself for not having figured it out sooner. John had been jealous, and felt like he couldn't express it because the last time the personal side of their relationship had come into the Work, it had caused a fight. He'd probably been afraid of rocking the boat by explaining things to Molly. Well, Sherlock thought, he would have to change that.

Reaching over casually, he took John's hand, ignoring the incredulous look he earned from the older man. When they reached the Yard, he didn't let go, even when John tried to tug his hand away. He could feel confusion and hope in the slightly too fast pulse that beat against his wrist when John's brushed up against it, and squeezed his hand in what he hoped was a comforting manner as he led John all the way to Greg's office, listening to the small, shocked murmurs that rose from the more observant police officers that they left in their wake.

News of their relationship would be all over London by morning, Sherlock thought gleefully. And then _no one_ would try to take John from him, or him from John. Of course, it might simply be dismissed as another rumor, but a few more times doing this and it would soon be accepted as fact. Sherlock couldn't wait.

All of this ran through the back of his mind while he explained to Greg that it had been the brother-in-law, with whom the victim had also been having an affair, who'd murdered her, when she'd threatened to tell her sister about the affair. The proof was in one of his novels, which had funnily enough come out last month. John had had it in the flat, and one night when Sherlock had been really bored, he'd gone ahead and read through John's entire collection of books.

Greg's gaze flickered to their joined hands the moment they entered his office, but his only reaction was a grin. When they left, trusting Greg to go catch the man, he shot off a quick text to his husband, before heading out to do his job.

Sherlock, meanwhile, tugged John into the back of another cab, leaning forward to give an address that John didn't quite catch. He watched his partner suspiciously from the corner of his eye until they pulled up in front of Angelo's, and then he found himself smiling a little, incredibly touched, when the genius held the door for him and then headed for their usual table.

Angelo brought out a candle for them, before doing anything else, and then brought their meals, earning a small chuckle from John.

"So what's all this about, then? Holding hands at the Yard and going out on a date doesn't seem like you, Sherlock."

"No? Well, John, I figured you deserved a date, and since we're done with the case, I don't have to worry about my transport being slowed down. If we repeat this process a few times, you should have no more reason to feel jealous when we are around Molly."

John blinked.

"Is that the reason you did all this, then? So I wouldn't feel jealous of Molly?" It was an incredibly sweet thing to do, and not like Sherlock at all. Instead of answering in the affirmative instantly, however, Sherlock glanced out the window, blushing a bit. It took him a couple of swallows to make himself answer.

"No. I also did it because I've missed you over the past two days, and because I want everyone to know you're mine and I'm yours, and because while I don't need or want a protector, I do both need and want _you_. And I don't have a problem doing "couple things" with you, as they really don't interfere with our Work. I actually enjoy them, truthfully."

"I… so you don't mind if people know we're together?" It was, John though, almost definitely too good to be true. Except he'd already pinched himself, and knew it wasn't a dream.

"Of course not. How else would I get rid of the parade of harlots that follow you around? I suppose it might make you a target more frequently, however…" Sherlock frowned, already calculating how much more danger John would be in if their relationship became more than just popular rumor, and John realized he had to stop him before he decided the risk was too high. He didn't want to have to control himself in public, never reach for the taller man or get the chance to hold his hand.

"Sod that. I'm the target often enough already. You shine even more brilliantly than normal when you think I'm in danger, which just means you'll be even more dangerous to anyone who tries anything. I'm not worried."

There were so many things Sherlock wanted to say in that moment. He wanted to explain how John _was_ his world, and how he wouldn't survive without him, but eventually he settled for quietly thanking him and taking his hand, on top of the table, where anyone passing by would be able to see it.

The small gesture set both men a little more at ease, and when they went home and John eventually went to sleep, he took comfort in the knowledge that Sherlock _wanted_ them to be a couple, not just flat mates who made out and hid it from the world. Not long after he closed his eyes, he began to dream, and the sight that danced beneath his eyelids was Sherlock, those long, graceful fingers making love to his violin. He thought he could even hear music, but it only served to soothe him deeper into sleep, never knowing that Sherlock was playing one of his favorite melodies to express his love, devotion, and need in the only way he was, thus far, completely comfortable with.


	11. Wonderful

**A/N: Forgot to let you know yesterday, this is based off "Wonderful," by Rob Thomas. That's really all there is to say. Sorry! Life has been busy!**

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Sherlock was in a surprisingly good mood, considering the fact that the case he'd agreed to take on at Greg's request was barely a two. He hadn't even been sure he'd wanted to leave the flat in order to do the investigation, but John had fancied a walk, so the two of them had strolled down to the crime scene, only a few streets away, to have a look.

But as Sherlock had learned from the time he was a little boy, good moods were made to be wrecked, and the trouble started almost as soon as they arrived on the scene, in the form of Donovan and Anderson whispering with some young uniformed officer neither the consulting detective nor his blogger had ever met. Fresh-faced, she was obviously new at her job, and she kept glancing over at Sherlock every five seconds or so while Sally spoke to her.

He did his best to ignore it, just like he always did, but he had a feeling that he wasn't going to be allowed to ignore it much longer. Especially when Greg had to go speak with the witnesses, leaving John and Sherlock alone with the body, and those lingering glances grew more intense and more frequent. He doubted John even noticed.

With a small internal sigh, his happiness deflating with every second that went by because he just _knew_ what was coming next, Sherlock tried to keep his focus on the body, which wasn't even particularly cleverly killed. A bullet to the skull. Boring. The only somewhat redeeming factor about the whole thing was that the killer had tried to make it look like a suicide by leaving a note, which anyone could see was written by a man, not a woman.

As he straightened up he heard, not for the first time, the faint murmurs of Sally Donovan saying that one of these times, when they were all standing around a body, he was going to have been the one who put it there. For all that most people praised his talents as wonderful, it always seemed like there had to be someone who tried to break him, just for the satisfaction of seeing the smile leave his face.

Taking his gloves off with a little more force than usual and causing them to snap loudly in the room where the body had been found, Sherlock gritted his teeth against the urge to go hit Donovan for her comments, or Anderson, as he chimed in just then. John, oblivious, was doing his own observing, and Sherlock was pleased, with the part of his mind that was always focused on John no matter how much else was going on around them, that he was coming to the same conclusions Sherlock had. It was nice to know he was smarter than the morons who worked for Mycroft's husband.

Just as John stood up laughter came from the corner where the threesome was standing, and Sherlock did his best to keep himself under control. Taking slow, careless breaths and keeping his walk the normal steady, long strides he was fairly well known for, Sherlock swept out of the room, doing his best to pretend that he didn't even notice their existence.

He hated, truly hated, that what they thought mattered after all this time. He was a genius, wasn't he? Always impeccably dressed, brilliant, and graceful, Sherlock should have been over their opinions, considering he _knew_ they were simply jealous. But that didn't seem to matter. It was strange, how people who should mean nothing to him could make him feel like _he_ was nothing. If he'd been observing the phenomenon second-hand, he'd probably have found it interesting, but as it was, it was ruining his mood.

"You okay, Sherlock?" John only realized something was wrong when Sherlock left the crime scene without so much as a word to him and was standing outside on the street, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his Belstaff and collar turned up against the March wind. The days were slowly starting to get warmer, but this was not one of the nicer ones, and Sherlock could feel the sting of the chill in his bones even as he reminded himself not to shiver. He hated showing weakness when he already felt vulnerable, and he very much just wanted to go curl up in his bed right now and hide from the world for a while.

But that wasn't even possible. At the moment, there were at least a dozen cases demanding his attention, and even he was starting to get a little run down from all the nights they came home late, if they were able to come home at all, as they moved from one problem to the next. John never liked to let a person in need down, and so Sherlock took on all those cases no one else could solve, even if it meant he was overworked. He knew that part of him was still trying to make his absence up to John, and it wasn't hard for him to figure out why.

"I'm fine." Sherlock stated calmly. And he was, if he ignored the twitch in his right hand and the dull roar in his ears that told him he'd gone too long without a proper rest. He'd been pushing himself hard, the past month, to feel worthy of John, and he knew that was part of why he was a little more sensitive than usual on that particular day.

"Shall we go get you something to eat before we go fill out our reports? And then I think we should get you home and get you some sleep. No offense, but you look like hell warmed up."

Sherlock did flinch a little at the observation, and noticed, with a little alarm, that John was watching him, face full of concern. He didn't want concern; he wanted John to smile at him like he'd smiled at him the last time they'd kissed, which had been… a few days ago? The consulting detective realized his need for rest was a little direr than he'd thought, if he wasn't entirely sure of something so simple.

Before he could answer, however, Donovan, Anderson, and the new girl came out, and Donovan knocked into him with her shoulder with so much force he knew it couldn't have been an accident.

"Hey there, freak. I heard about that private case you took the other day. What do you think the headlines will read this time? "Overrated Consulting Detective Saves Cat From Tree?" The new officer laughed even harder than her companions, and Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose, reminding himself that reacting only made things worse. If he could simply remain uninterested, as far as they knew, he could escape after only a few more insults.

John, however, was not interested in appearing uninterested. He knew that Sherlock was hurt, even if he pretended he wasn't, and he wasn't about to stand there and let those three walk all over him.

"You're Amelia, right?" He smiled at the new recruit as nicely as he could manage, and he watched her blink a few times before blushing and nodding, obviously charmed. Sherlock, meanwhile, was simply watching them with shock and pain just barely visible in his eyes, something no one but John would notice. He was about to remedy those emotions, however.

"Well, Amelia, I'm going to tell you something right now. If you're as much of an asshole to Sherlock as these two morons are, I am going to make it my personal mission to make your life as miserable as possible before you quit this job and run home screaming in tears. Do you understand?"

John's voice had gone from pleasant to the commanding Captain's voice he so rarely used within the space of a few seconds, and the girl only nodded before blushing a furious shade of red and practically running away. Donovan glared at him, and Anderson watched, slack-jawed, as she got right in John's face.

"That was my cousin you just terrorized. I could arrest you for harassment." Donovan snarled at him, but that was when Sherlock, who would die before he'd let anyone hurt John, stepped in. Hand firmly wrapping around her upper arm, he jerked her back and glared down at her, stepping in close to unnerve her more.

"It doesn't matter who she is, Donovan. And in any event, you can hardly threaten John when you act in a much more vulgar manner toward me. Shall we see if harassment charges can actually stick? I imagine I know two people who would be sharing a cell, were that the case."

With that Sherlock turned around and flagged a taxi, pulling John in when he simply stared at his partner with a mixture of amusement and sadness on his face. It was, Sherlock thought, a strange combination.

"Was that not good?" Sherlock asked, wanting to know what had given him that expression, and if he could fix it. John shook his head, but didn't say anything else except the name of the restaurant to the taxi driver for the rest of the ride. They ate in silence, too, which was rare, before heading to the Yard to fill out their reports. It was only when they got home that John gave voice to the thoughts that had been churning in his head.

"Why did you do that, earlier?"

"Well, I was hardly going to let her try to intimidate you. Not only is she not very good at it, but I will not allow those toads to play games with you."

"That's not what I meant. I was asking why you let them play those games with _you_." John's voice was so direct that Sherlock knew he had to answer honestly, but he found he couldn't look at the older man as he did so. Instead, when he sat down on the couch he turned his gaze to his hands, which were linked together in his lap.

"They will never like or respect me for who I am, John. That's a simple fact. But I am who I am, and nothing is going to change that. I understand why they don't like me, and while for a long time I did try to fight back, I have long since realized that it's useless. I can never make myself into someone they could respect or care about, and there's no point in trying to get them to change their minds. I've found that it keeps the insults to a minimum if I just pretend they don't exist, because if they don't think they're getting to me, they're not half so vicious."

John wandered just how much of his behavior was wisdom, and how much sprang directly from a lifetime of being told by his parents that he was unlovable. He felt a pang of sympathy for the little boy his flat mate sometimes still was, inside, and the confession that had been building for weeks simply sprang from his mouth in automatic reaction.

"Well, fuck them. They might not love you, but I sure as hell do, and if you ask me, you're far more lovable than some stupid bitch who thinks that sleeping with a married man means he'll leave his wife for her."

John had, for the most part, left profanity behind in his army days, but seeing Sherlock hurting so badly brought the solider back to the surface full force. He hadn't meant to tell Sherlock how he felt in quite that way—he'd planned to take him someplace nice, with candles and music and all the trappings, and have an environment that suited the confession. Despite that, though, he couldn't help thinking that it was worth it, the way this had all happened, because surprise had completely wiped out the lingering sadness in Sherlock's eyes. Instead, he was now staring at the shorter man as if he had three heads.

"I… are you aware of what you just said?" Struck dumb by John's declaration, and believing it entirely too good to be true, Sherlock studied John carefully, searching for any sign that his words had been a mistake. But no, there were no signs that he regretted or felt embarrassed by what he'd said, and then he took both of Sherlock's hands in his and repeated himself.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. To me, it really doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, but I was not about to stand there and let them insult you like that. I know it hurts you, even though you'd never admit it, and to be honest, I hate knowing that there are people in the world who can't see how truly wonderful you are because they're too jealous of you to open their eyes and shut their overly large mouths. You don't have to feel the same, but I thought you should know that to me, you are the most lovable person in the world."

Sherlock was honestly not sure what to say. He was on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion, but emotion was flooding through him like a tidal wave, and he wanted, no, _needed_ John to know that he felt the exact same way. He pulled his blogger in for a passionate kiss and was pleased when John accepted it instantly, easily, opening his mouth and giving every bit as good as he got.

When they pulled back, both breathing unsteadily, Sherlock was practically swaying with exhaustion. John, concerned, told him to go to bed, but when he tried to stand he nearly tripped over his feet and fell on his own face. It occurred to him, then, that he hadn't slept for a little over three days. His transport was, obviously, protesting that.

Normally Sherlock would simply have stayed on the couch to sleep it off, but John surprised him by sweeping him up into his arms bridal style and carrying him into his room, where he sat him down gently before pulling the covers back and, after undressing him down to his pants, settling Sherlock beneath them. He watched the taller man's eyes close and smiled, unable to resist leaning down to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

"Will you be here when I wake?" He asked sleepily, his words slurring together adorably. John, whose heart was melting, couldn't resist. Removing his own shirt and trousers, he slid into bed to hold Sherlock close, letting his actions serve as his answer.

Just before Sherlock fell asleep, he found the strength to say three last words, though they were little more than a whisper against John's neck while he cuddled in.

"I love you." Almost as soon as he spoke he passed out, and he would stay asleep for a good sixteen hours. John didn't mind, however. He slept for a while, then woke to check on Sherlock, and then slept again. He occasionally crept off to the bathroom to relieve himself or to the kitchen to make tea, but when Sherlock finally did wake, they were twined around each other like ivy, holding each other like they would never, ever let go. It was, Sherlock thought as his lips curved up in a smile, wonderful.


	12. Close To You

**If any of you have been impatiently awaiting the chapter when our boys consummate their relationship... Here you go. The song is "Close To You," by Neon Trees, and I hope you enjoy.**

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Intimacy was, to say the least, a touchy subject for Sherlock. The closest thing he'd ever had to a sexual relationship, before John, was a platonic relationship with a man named Victor back in uni. He'd been straight, but the two boys had been so similar that they'd ended up in an asexual relationship, because they were the only two who could keep up with each other.

John completed him, much as Victor had, but for a number of different reasons. And John was, by some strange quirk of fate, also attracted to him physically. There was no need to take a trip to the loo to hide an erection so as not to make John uncomfortable. If he had the sudden impulse to lean over and kiss his doctor for saying something brilliant, he could do so, to his delight. But there was one thing they hadn't talked about, in the couple of months they'd been together: sex.

Even the word made Sherlock a tiny bit squeamish, but not for the reasons most people assumed. The issue wasn't that he knew nothing about it. He might never have experienced it, but he did know how to pick up a book or use a search engine online. He understood the technical aspects, probably better than some people who were _having_ sex, but he had never, even once, indulged in the practice himself.

Sherlock did not have a body image issue which prevented him from engaging in intercourse. He was perfectly fine with walking around naked, or in his dressing gown, or at least he had been before the Fall. He had a few more scars now, certainly, but even that wasn't such a big deal. He had a feeling John had seen worse, and anyway, he had seen Sherlock in short sleeves a few times since they'd started dating, and hadn't seemed repulsed by the occasional fading mark.

No, the issue was that Sherlock had simply told himself that he was above carnal desires. He'd taken Mycroft's lead in that, too, and had completely abstained from even casual flirtation, lest someone mistake it for interest in further acts. He could talk a good game when a case required it, but he pretty much avoided the topic entirely when he could, which was fast becoming a problem.

John was used to having sex. Before Sherlock, he'd been able to go pulling and bring a girl home the very same night. He was very attractive, as far as those things went, and had a healthy sexual appetite to go along with it. Sherlock knew, because Mike Stamford had hinted at it the first time he'd seen Sherlock after John had agreed to become his flat mate. Apparently he'd had the nickname "Three Continents Watson" in his days as an army Captain, and he'd proved that reputation often enough during the first few months of their partnership.

But the doctor hadn't brought anyone home since they'd started dating, and Sherlock had no doubt that he would probably want sex at some point. He thought that he could get past his self-imposed aversion to the idea, but wasn't sure how to go about doing that. Should he seduce John? Should he wait for John to seduce him?

Other than the night they'd first declared their love, he and John hadn't been in a situation where Sherlock felt comfortable approaching the idea. Somehow, he didn't think John would appreciate him bringing it up when he was sipping tea after a long day dealing with a case or patients at the surgery where he worked, but he'd given Sherlock no indications that he wanted to have sex with him anyway.

That realization made the consulting detective frown. Did John find the idea of sex with him abhorrent? Was it fine for him to kiss another man, but not fine for them to have sex? If that was the case, John was missing a part of being in a relationship that he quite enjoyed, by all indications, and Sherlock was not satisfied with being only part of what he needed.

And everything else aside, he _did_ want to know what it was like, to belong to someone else like that. He had urges, just like every other man, and he'd taken himself in hand more than once with John's name on his lips. He was desperately curious to know if reality would live up to the fantasy, and part of him was terrified he'd never get to know.

It was this train of thought that led him to agree to a case Greg probably wouldn't even have offered him, had his own officers not been busy that night. Sherlock had been desperately bored, and John had requested that Greg offer him _something_ to do. Now, as he wiggled into the appropriate attire John had selected for him to wear that night, he found himself regretting the impulse to get out of the flat so he wouldn't have to watch John all night and wonder if there was something lacking in him, that his boyfriend didn't want him.

Greg himself drove them to a nightclub not far from his and Mycroft's flat, and Mycroft, who had decided to come along so Greg would have someone to talk to as a reason for being in the club, raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's appearance, but had said nothing. The younger Holmes scowled. He was wearing the purple shirt John seemed to like so much, with rather tight leather trousers, but he wore no suit jacket. His hair was arranged in its normal bouncy curls, so he really didn't look _that _different.

His brother, on the other hand, looked about ten years younger with a button down open to the middle of his chest and jeans with rips at the knees. He looked artfully messy, and perfectly suited to the DI, who was wearing all black but for the fake silver earring dangling from his right ear. They would, he thought, make a good pair, and certainly be passable in the club.

John had surprised Sherlock with his own clothes, too. The normally conservative doctor wore a wifebeater in a medium shade of grey and black cargo pants, leaving his dog tags dangling on the outside.

"Now remember, boys, the whole point of tonight is to simply watch our target. We're not making the arrest, because it isn't my area, but it's a favor for a friend, and all we're doing is seeing if he deals inside the club or not. I'm just passing the information along, so there's no need to approach. When he leaves, we get to go home."

To Greg, who really felt he was getting too old for this, the whole night felt like a chore. One of his casual friends from Narcotics had covered a few of his shifts while he and Mycroft had been honeymooning, and this was the last of the shifts he had taken in return. He would be glad to be done.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, however, he thought that the case might be exactly what John and Sherlock needed. Sharing a glance with Mycroft, he raised an eyebrow and glanced back once, earning a small smile in return. The elder Holmes had informed him that the two hadn't even talked about sex yet, but that they both wanted it and just weren't sure how to ask for it, and he was the one, really, who'd suggested Greg bring them in on this. That made it his party, since Greg wasn't at all sure it would work.

"Shall we go in?" Mycroft slipped gracefully out of the car and waited for Greg before heading into the club, looking strangely at home despite never having been in that sort of establishment before. It was, John guessed as he and Sherlock followed behind, something he'd retained from doing undercover work as a younger man. Greg suited the environment as well; he'd been something of a hellion well into his twenties, and obviously hadn't lost his touch.

Even Sherlock looked like he belonged here, surrounded as they were by beautiful people in tight clothing with bedroom eyes. Mycroft and Greg stayed together, but Sherlock and John split up for the first little while, so they could case separately. John danced while Sherlock surveyed the part of the crowd that was sitting and drinking. The doctor chatted with a few people, making it look like he was pulling, but he wasn't really into it.

Suddenly the song changed from the techno beat that had been playing to something sultry and slower, and John, as if attracted by some magnetic force, met Sherlock's eyes across the room. He looked painfully lonely in that moment, desperately needing something he couldn't name, and John felt the same need rising up inside himself. Lights flared across Sherlock's skin, casting his shadow back on the walls where he stood on the edge of the crowd, looking both cool and needy, a strange but unbearably alluring contrast.

John couldn't have resisted the pull to save his life. He crossed the floor, case forgotten, everything forgotten but the desire to be close to Sherlock. The consulting detective must have felt the same, because when John came up, their bodies came together as if they'd practiced it a thousand times, pressing up against one another and moving to the beat. If anyone else had contemplated approaching the consulting detective, they went back to their drinks, seeing the way the two men fit like halves of a whole and knowing they were indelibly together. There were a few envious sighs as the interested parties wondered what it would be like to go home with one or the other of them, but neither of them noticed.

Sherlock's eyes looked slumberous in the near dark, and he practically embodied sex as the two of them swayed together, hips rocking in a way that had John's libido roaring to life while the bass pounded all around them. It felt like it was just the two of them in the world, and to John, there was nothing but the fire in Sherlock's eyes.

He'd been afraid of approaching the idea of sex with his flat mate because he knew Sherlock had no experience, and he'd thought that the younger man would bring it up when he was ready. He saw, now, the echo of fear in the mercurial pools that held him captive, and understood that they'd both wanted this without knowing the other felt the same.

Laughing a little at the absurdity of it all, John tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and brought him down for a steamy kiss, one that sizzled like lightning through both their veins before they pulled back, urgency driving them both out to the street for a cab. There was no time to say goodbye to Greg, no time to explain.

Mycroft watched them go, a small smile on his face, before alerting his husband. While the two of them located the suspect and determined that he was, in fact, dealing in the club, Sherlock and John finally reached Baker Street, both halfway to quivering with anticipation.

When they finally ended up in Sherlock's room, simply because it was closest, it was as if they'd never left the club. John could still hear the bass in his ears, or perhaps that was the sound of his own heart, beating loud as he and Sherlock kissed against the door, moving as if they planned to crawl inside each other's skin and never return.

Clothes came off under gentle but insistent hands, as they both felt the fire building, not yet out of control but getting there as they tested one another with lips and tongues and teeth, fingers skating over hot, sticky, sweaty skin as they revealed more and more territory to explore and revel in.

"There's never been anyone else. Only you. No one else has ever gotten close to me." Sherlock gasped out as the two of them tumbled onto the mattress, thinking it desperately important that he make it clear to John that there had never been, and would never be, anyone else. The man who'd once scorned sentiment as a chemical defect was now feeling it in spades, and found no shame in it.

"I love you. I won't hurt you like everyone else does. I promise." John could see how nervous Sherlock was about the whole thing, even as he tried to hide his trembling, so once John had prepared him and slicked himself up, sliding the tip in, he joined their hands together so Sherlock could hold onto him and slowly, carefully, sank himself deep.

From there, it was a slow, erotic glide, the only sounds their panting breaths, the slap of flesh against flesh, and the pulsing of their hearts as they moved together. John kept his gaze locked with Sherlock's and when they tumbled over the edge together, he could almost see the fireworks exploding behind Sherlock's eyes as he let out a harsh cry, releasing between them as John slid home one last time.

For a long time they just stared at each other, as if discovering one another for the first time. Then John pulled out, caressing his lover's cheek soothingly as he did so, before grabbing a flannel from the bathroom and dampening it with warm water. He cleaned the two of them up before tossing the cloth in the general direction of the rest of Sherlock's dirty laundry and sliding back into bed with him.

"That was incredible." He murmured, low, and Sherlock let out a little laugh, smiling at the ceiling before moving to kiss John, this time with soft gratitude instead of explosive lust. John had never felt closer to a person than he did in that moment, not even while buried deep inside them.

It was, he decided, a closeness he never wanted to live without again. He just had to convince Sherlock to make the arrangement permanent. He knew the genius was most of the way there, but he also knew that the younger man harbored surprising doubts about his own worth, and knew he would have to get past that last little bit of fear before Sherlock would believe that they could last. He was more than up for the challenge.


	13. Collar Full

**A/N: There was a fairly huge market a while back for post-case sexploits of our boys, so I decided to try my hand a little at that, since its a perfectly feasable idea. The song is "Collar Full," by Panic! At The Disco, and I hope you love reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

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Adrenaline was, John thought, a very fine thing. A chase up and down the streets of London after a madman with a gun would not be most people's idea of a good time, but to John, it was a nostalgic experience. It gave him the taste of danger he missed desperately from his days in the army, but he could then go home at night and sleep in a bed that was his, and that was something he would never take for granted.

He and Sherlock chased their victim down, John keeping pace remarkably well despite his shorter legs, and after a brief tussle they won from him his gun. Sherlock cuffed him just as it began to rain, using one of the many pairs he had "borrowed" from his brother-in-law, while John called in their location and it wasn't long before Greg had shown up, taking in the scene with an exasperated but affectionate sigh, and then bundled the suspect into the back of the car.

"Will the two of you be okay to get home, or should I come back for you? You're pretty far from Baker Street, and I don't know if you've ever been around Sherlock while he's sick, but it's not pleasant." Sherlock was ignoring both of them in favor of inspecting the road—it had been redone since the last time he'd been in the area—and he was revising that section of his mental map of London while John took care of what he thought of as the post-case small talk. As far as he was concerned, his job was done as soon as the criminal was caught and the Yard had enough evidence to put him behind bars. Anything after that was his lover's territory.

That thought made him grin, as he finished making the minor adjustments in his head. He could officially claim John as his lover now, and he wondered why he hadn't done so sooner. He'd waited so damn long, only to find out that not only did John feel the same, but he wanted it just as badly as Sherlock did. How much time had they wasted, and how many times had they argued because of the sexual tension when they could have fixed it all in many more pleasurable ways? Sherlock, who was normally so quick to work things out, wondered how many sad, lonely nights he could have erased had he just opened his eyes and believed sooner. He'd known how he'd felt before the Fall; he wondered now when John had started to feel the same way.

"Sherlock?" John's voice jolted him out of his musings, and he realized that Greg was gone, which meant he'd been standing here in the rain for at least a quarter of an hour, if he was able to accurately judge by the state of John's clothes.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock was caught by surprise when John shoved him back against the alley wall and pressed their lips together hungrily, trying to pour all the love he felt for the younger man into the gesture. Sherlock was quivering lightly, but not from the rain. The chemistry between the two of them, pure and bright as an open flame, was burning him up in the best way, and when his hands came up it was only to drag his blogger closer and gain a better angle so they could take the kiss deeper.

Coming up for air, the two of them started giggling, well aware that the passion bursting through them both was a result of the chase and the chance, always a chance, that they were not going to make it out unscathed.

"You know, so many of these times, I think you're going to be the death of me." John was grinning as he said this, so Sherlock knew it wasn't an insult, but an observation. So instead of being offended, he smiled back.

"You love every second of it. The chase, the fear, the high when it's done… there are many reasons you're here with me. The risk only adds to the thrill for you, I think." John laughed at that, and Sherlock found himself laughing again with him. Only John, he thought, could invoke this feeling in him. Loving John felt more like flying than any case he'd ever taken on, and he wondered if John even knew what he did to the genius.

"Yeah. I do, and it does. I was only just thinking that I wouldn't mind it if this was how I went out, because I'd be by your side, doing what we both love." Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat at the comment, one that was both romantic and, if he was being honest, a little scary for him. The idea of losing John was more than he could handle, yet there was no way to separate John from the Work. They were too tangled up in one another, and the Work was what made John feel complete when he'd thought himself worth nothing. Sherlock would just have to keep an eye on him, and trust that it would be enough to keep him safe.

Blood still humming pleasantly, John claimed another kiss, a little sloppy—not that either of them minded—but mostly chaste before heading to the mouth of the alley to attract the attention of a taxi. When they finally got one, it was because Sherlock had flagged it down, but John was in far too good a mood to be annoyed that the consulting detective was a taxi magnet where he could barely catch one to save his life. The man dropped them off at Baker Street as quickly as possible, probably able to sense the barely-leashed need to reaffirm their lives that was riding both of them hard, and his tires squealed as he drove away, splashing the two men with a little bit of water as he went.

They barely noticed, eyes catching and holding as John fumbled with his keys. When they finally made it up to their own flat, not wanting to scare Mrs. Hudson with a trail of clothing leading up the stairs, they started stripping down right where they were, dumping their sodden clothes in a messy pile that John would clean up later. Unable to wait to touch and taste his lover again, John waited until Sherlock was just down to his trousers and pants before putting his back to the wall again, pushing close so it felt almost as if they shared one body, one heart, and one overly active mind as they rolled their hips in unison, sighing and moaning at the sweet friction.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to want more—somehow John managed to make him desperate for things he hadn't even wanted before knowing him—and he spun them so John was the one who was pinned while he ravaged his mouth, not losing the contact once. The doctor's mouth tasted like tea, but when Sherlock's lips moved to his neck to sample there, he found that the shorter man tasted of salt and the faintest hint of aftershave, and the combination, though strange, was intoxicating.

Nipping at his pulse just to hear him moan, Sherlock began to tug John toward the bedroom, walking backward so he didn't have to stop kissing him. He'd never imagined that he would find much joy in giving pleasure to another, but he was quickly discovering he'd been wrong about that, just like he'd been wrong in assuming he was better on his own.

He'd always been a solitary creature, but John had changed him in so many ways, and it seemed like the changes had been, for the most part, better. He'd always assumed it was a weakness, to need someone else, but he now understood that under the right circumstances, it was a huge strength, one that shouldn't be underestimated. He and John, as a team, were nearly unstoppable, and that was one of the many reasons they worked so well.

It would be easy to second guess, but the truth was, Sherlock didn't want to let his brain, overactive as it usually was, detail all the ways things could go wrong. He really didn't want to know; he believed that what they had was strong enough to survive the challenges they would have to face together, and he knew for certain that he loved John enough to stick with him no matter how tricky things were for the two of them. Maybe he had lived alone for a very long time, but now, he had no plans to die alone.

"I want to show you how much I love you, John." Sherlock whispered in the doctor's ear as they reached the bedroom, and John shivered, tingles sweeping pleasantly up and down his body while he tried to come up with a coherent sentence in response. Sherlock had a way of scrambling his mind, but he wasn't going to object, not when that normally wicked sharp tongue was flicking so sweetly at his ear, a gentle, affectionate taunt that had John grasping at his back, seeking something to hold onto in the eye of the storm that was taking them both over.

"Show me, then." John had never been the one to take in the bedroom, before, but it was something he'd considered doing. There would be times when Sherlock would need that control to feel like they were on even ground, and even though being in a relationship with a man was new to him, it was something he'd mentally prepared himself for. He had had a feeling, that one night when they came home, Sherlock's need to dominate would assert itself, and John would need to turn the reins over.

It wasn't as difficult a choice as he'd expected it to be, somehow. Sherlock was the one who led in their everyday lives, after all; John might have been the one with experience, but Sherlock was a very quick learner, and it wasn't in his nature to give up control willingly. He trusted John with his body and heart, and John wanted, even needed, to show him he felt the same way.

And from the way things were going, it seemed as if Sherlock understood, because instead of simply ripping his clothes off, preparing him, and plunging into him, the consulting detective seemed to be practically worshipping him with his hands, teeth, and tongue. He had John on the bed completely naked, but instead of being in a hurry, he slowed his pace, wanting to show John just how completely adored he was. It was similar to their first time, except that they both knew a little better what they were doing now, so things ran more smoothly, if no less sweetly.

Sherlock's normally impatient hands were practically everywhere all at once, but were stroking him with feather-light caresses instead of grabbing at his flesh. The tall man kissed his way up and down his lover's body, paying special attention to the places that made him sigh and moan until John was a quivering, writhing mess beneath him. Then he grinned, and sank his mouth down to envelope John completely, bobbing up and down and holding his hips still so he couldn't thrust upward. The blogger made a small noise of complaint, and Sherlock pulled off before coming up to kiss his lips affectionately.

"Not yet. I want to make this last. I want to see your eyes when you're right on the edge, steal the screams from your mouth when you go over. I want this to be as good for you as it is for me, and I want you to know just what it does to me when you're inside me."

With that Sherlock grabbed the lube, warmed it up, and started to prepare the older man. He was as careful as he could be, using patience he rarely used for anything but experimentation to tease John until he was practically sobbing for it. Even then, he held his composure, easing in slowly when he wanted nothing more than to go in hard and fast, drive them both mercilessly toward completion. There would, he knew, be other nights for that. But in this moment, he needed John to feel not just lust, but love. He would lock him to him this way, and any other ways he could think of, so there would be no chance of him ever walking away.

"More, please, give me more. I'm so close, love…" John's eyes were closed and his head was thrown back, and his hips kept canting upward, trying to get Sherlock to speed up. He finally complied, by slow increments, and he could see John getting closer and closer to completion.

"Open your eyes and look at me. I want to see what I do to you." Sherlock growled the words as he began to slam in and out, his control slipping when John obeyed his order without question, his eyes blown wide with lust and need.

"Please, Sherlock… Please…" All John could do was beg, and it was driving Sherlock crazy. Reaching down with the hand not holding him up, he stroked John's cock, until the doctor finally let out a cry of release which Sherlock quickly captured, letting the sound, still reverberating in his ears, trigger his own explosive orgasm.

It took them a few minutes before Sherlock was recovered enough to clean them up, and afterward John curled against him, head on his shoulder, and let out a small chuckle.

"I don't think I'll ever get enough of the way you make me feel." The words were murmured sleepily, and Sherlock could feel eyelashes brushing against his skin rapidly before finally settling. John was just drifting off when the genius brushed a kiss over the top of his head, whispering his own response though he no longer thought John could hear him.

"I hope you never do. Losing you would break me." With that Sherlock closed his own eyes and tumbled into sleep, post-case exhaustion ensuring he would sleep deeply and long.

John fought sleep a little while longer, caught in that dreamy half-state, wondering if Sherlock meant what he'd said. If that was the case… if he felt about things the way John did… Perhaps it was time to take the next step in their relationship.

Smiling, the doctor let himself picture it. They wouldn't be likely to stay engaged for all that long, with how well they already knew one another. It would be interesting to see his lover's reaction to the idea as well, certainly.

Musing about how he would pull it off, John let his day dreams tug him gently into sleep, continuing to play out as his body, despite exhaustion, pulled his lover a little closer, because the idea of _not_ holding him, even when neither of them could fully appreciate it, was too sad for any part of him to stand. The world would catch up with the two of them tomorrow, but for now, they were wrapped up in dreams, and in each other, and they both smiled into the darkness.


	14. When It Rains

**A/N: Hey, remember John's sister Harry? I haven't addressed her so far, and I decided that I'd like to. It ended up not being at all what I expected it to be, but I really liked the way it turned out. If you like Harry, I'm sorry- I was not kind to her. The song is "When It Rains," by Paramore. Enjoy!**

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It was a relaxing morning in 221B Baker Street, and John had even managed to get Sherlock to eat some toast. Granted it was dry, and due to their distraction while it was toasting it was a little bit burned, but it was enough of a victory that John was smiling. Sherlock had moved from the table to gather up his violin and bow and was playing something soft and relaxed while John worked on his own toast.

Just then there was a sound from downstairs, and John heard a cheerful feminine voice calling up to them that had him biting down hard on his toast… and catching his tongue slightly, making him wince. He could taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth as he hastily swallowed, not missing the surprised glance Sherlock sent him.

"Fuck." He mumbled, hastily gesturing Sherlock toward the downstairs bedroom. He looked even more shocked now, but ambled inside, shutting the door just as the door to their flat burst open, revealing a very exuberant Harry Watson.

"Brother dear! Hello!" Harry was smiling, and she looked completely different from the last time he'd seen her. She'd been drunk that night, very, very drunk, and she'd thrown a bottle at him when he'd tried to convince her to stop. It had been after one of her fights with Clara, one of the really bad ones, and John had barely gotten out of the way of the flying glass. He hadn't been to visit, after that, though he had shot Clara a text warning her not to come home that night. He knew, because they'd kept in touch, that she hadn't gone home until two weeks after that.

John had thought that Harry blamed him for Clara's leaving, from the way she'd acted, but the fact that she was here now, smiling, suggested otherwise. Apparently she hadn't meant what she'd been screaming at him.

"Harry. What are you doing here?" He realized he'd sounded harsh when her smile melted away, replaced by an extremely hurt expression. Wincing at his own callousness, he kept talking, hoping that Sherlock had gotten the hint and would be getting dressed. It was fortunate that they still had their clothes in their own rooms, though they'd been spending most nights curled up in Sherlock's bed, only having spent a week up in John's when one of Sherlock's experiments, which had been confined to his bedroom due to its nature, had exploded and left them needing protective gear to enter, until the air had finally cleared. It was now mostly back to normal, except for a few char marks on the floor and walls.

"I mean, not that it's not great to see you, but I certainly wasn't expecting you." Sherlock came back out then, fortunately dressed, and he'd schooled his expression into its usual cool indifference. From what he'd heard of Harry, he knew she was someone who would likely treat him much as Donovan and Anderson did, and he disliked he already because of everything she put John through. He quickly scanned her with his eyes, making sure not to miss a thing.

"It's it a bit early for alcohol, Ms. Watson?" His voice arch and chilly, Sherlock crossed the kitchen and took his seat again, reaching over to take a sip of John's tea. It was a deliberately possessive gesture, one he knew Harry saw by the narrowing of her eyes. He shoved down the urge to sigh. It had been such a lovely morning, but now, it was obvious he was going to have to gear up for battle.

"I wanted to talk to Johnny. In _private_. It's about… Clara." Making sure to sound lost and forlorn, a trick she used on her brother frequently, Harry bowed her head so he wouldn't see the calculation in her eyes. Sherlock, instead of leaving as would be polite, simply crossed his arms over his chest, making it obvious that he was going nowhere.

"Sherlock… do you think you could give us a minute?" John's voice was every bit as soft and sympathetic as Harry had expected it to be, and she bit back a smile. Yes, he was the same brother she'd always known, just as malleable to her will with the right words and actions.

"I'll be in the living room, then." Stiffly, Sherlock rose, and John knew he would have to apologize later. Sherlock had been trying to offer moral support in his own way, but if John was honest with himself, he wanted to deal with Harry on his own. The last thing he wanted to do was drag his lover into the craziness that was his sister, if he wanted him to even stick around long enough to get a chance to propose to him.

The violin music began again, the tone this time vaguely mournful, a touch angry, and John knew that Sherlock was composing as he played. It was something he did when he was trying to express his feelings without words, and John decided that he would be doing something sweet and romantic to make it up to him later. And he would explain his feelings on the matter as well. For now, however, he had a sister to deal with.

"What about Clara, Harry? Where is she?" John had a feeling he knew what had happened, but he couldn't help feeling a little disgusted when tears began to track theatrically down her cheeks. Harry had gone from being his sweet sister to being a manipulative monster about the time she'd started drinking heavily, which she blamed on the fact that their parents hadn't been supportive of her being a lesbian.

John had cut ties with them in favor of supporting his sister, but it still saddened him to see what she'd become, even with him being there for her. Harry was now a user of more than just alcohol, and John had little doubt that she'd driven Clara away once again. As she put her face in her hands, probably so she could stop faking the tears, he simply made two more cups of tea and waited it out.

"She's left me again." When Harry was satisfied that her brother was going to play right into her plan, she dried her tears and accepted the tea, barely resisting the urge to request an additional ingredient. John didn't like it when she drank, she remembered.

"What happened this time?" John knew his voice wasn't as warm as it usually was when dealing with his sister's drama, and could tell by her quivering frown that she'd noticed.

"What do you mean what happened? She said… she said she doesn't want to love me." Turning the volume of her theatrics up, because that usually helped, Harry started fake sobbing in earnest, putting her head on her arms on the table and letting her whole body shake. Instead of coming around to hug her, however, John remained in his seat. Distantly, he heard the beginnings of rain outside the flat through the open window, and he wondered why it always seemed to be raining, when it came to his sister.

"Were you drinking again?" John's blunt question stopped the tears instantly, outrage jumping up to take their place. It was the first honest emotion Harry had exhibited in front of him the entire morning, he knew, and it was a sad commentary on their relationship.

"What are you talking about? Why would you just assume something like that? Don't you care about me at all, Johnny, that you would ask such a horrible question when the woman I love's gone and left me again? She jerks me around something fierce, and all you have to say about it is 'was I drinking again?' If I was, it's not your fucking business!"

Harry had jumped up from the table sometime during her little speech, but neither of them realized that the violin music had stopped until Sherlock was suddenly there, hand wrapped around the wrist of the hand she'd been moving to smack John with, glaring at her with fury boiling in his eyes.

"You will not touch John. Get out." Sherlock had been fully prepared to let John work things out with his sister on his own, but he'd been watching, and had seen the indicators of violence. He might have let John get yelled at, since that was obviously something he'd been prepared for, but he wasn't going to watch Harry hit him and do nothing. It was in his nature to protect those he loved, though it was a side of him people rarely saw, and those protective instincts rose to the fore when he considered the fact that John hadn't moved at all, and would have let her hand make contact with his face.

Harry attempted to wrench her fist out of Sherlock's grip, but he was surprisingly strong for his build. He held on as he escorted her to their door, then shoved her out in the hallway and shut and locked the door between them. She'd smelled of booze and stale cigarettes, and Sherlock had no doubt that she would be going to a bar to spill her sob story out to some bartender, somewhere, who wouldn't see it for what it was—an act.

He didn't understand why she would behave as she did. She really didn't have such a bad life, all things considered. But she was one of those people who always wanted more, and couldn't be content with her own life. In addition, she couldn't let anyone in her life be happy if she herself wasn't, and her problems were never her own fault, but always someone else's. Sherlock had always considered such people contemptible, but it occurred to him only after the door was firmly locked that it should have been John's decision, not his, whether or not she stayed or went.

Turning carefully, worried that John might be upset with him, he was surprised to find his arms filled with army doctor as John wrapped his arms around him and buried his face against his chest, breathing deeply. He wasn't crying, or even shaking, but he held Sherlock tight for a long moment before letting go and moving to sit on the sofa. Not knowing what else to do, Sherlock followed, tugging him into his arms when he sat stiffly. He went willingly into his lover's embrace, taking comfort in the soothing scent of lavender and tobacco that would have let him identify the taller man even in the pitch dark.

"I don't know how she can do that," he said, voice soft. Sherlock held him a little tighter, but didn't speak, knowing he needed to let it all out. "She does this to herself, then blames everyone else. And she won't let those of us who still care, despite everything, help her. She's always running away from people who love her, and it's always everyone else's fault, as far as she's concerned. It's like she doesn't even understand that she's the only one standing in her way of being happy. It's always rain with her, never sun, and all she would have to do is open her eyes. She has more than a lot of people, and she acts like she has nothing at all."

John closed his eyes then, cuddling closer to Sherlock. He was surprisingly good at cuddling, considering he was all arms and legs, but instead of feeling like he was cuddling with an octopus, John just felt comforted.

"Some people can't see what's right in front of them, John. How many murders have we seen committed that were driven by misunderstandings or things that should have been completely irrelevant? There are those who simply can't trust happiness, even when it's handed to them and tied up in a bow. I think your sister's just one of those people. And I am sorry that hurts, you, but… she's made her bed, John. If she now has to lie in it, at the bottom of the hole she's dug for herself, that's not on you, but on her. Don't blame yourself or think it's anything to do with you."

"Part of me knows all that. But she's my sister, too. I just… I don't get it. She does this every time, and it's like I never see it coming, because a part of me always thinks that maybe this will be the time she changes, the time she gets over herself and all the imagined sleights that make her act like she does. I wish she could just… be the sister she used to be. Or at least explain to me, in a way I could understand, the reason she acts like this."

"There may never be a way to fix your relationship, John. I hate to say it, but… even when Mycroft and I were at odds, I never doubted that he did the best he could by me. He never used me as a pawn, and never treated me like a convenience. Even when he was doing questionable things, I always knew he had my best interests at heart. I don't think… I don't think that you can trust Harry to not use you."

It hurt, knowing Sherlock felt that way, because he was rarely ever wrong. It obviously wasn't a deduction he'd wanted to make—his whole body was tense as he prepared himself for John's rejection—and John knew he wouldn't have voiced the truth if he hadn't thought it was something he had to hear, regardless of what it did to their relationship. Knowing he cared enough about John's happiness to put him first like that melted the ice that had formed in the doctor's heart when his sister had come to the door that morning.

Turning so he could look into Sherlock's eyes, John looked at him for a long moment before nodding, pressing their lips together gently in a kiss that sought reassurance, above all else. And Sherlock, who'd never even known how to offer comfort, offered it easily, something no one else would ever experience. Knowing that soothed the ragged edges in John's mind, let him relax into the kiss and allow it to soothe the pain from his heart, at least for a while.

There was passion, yes, but it was a slow smolder that allowed both of them all the time in the world to just work slowly into it, letting it build instead of simply exploding in them like fireworks. They stripped one another down slowly in the living room, the heat rising even as the rain grew harder. It lashed in earnest as the two of them reached their climax, John following close on Sherlock's heels, and John laughed a little as he curled close against his lover, head on his shoulder while his fingers danced absently over his chest before settling palm down over his heart.

"What's so amusing?" Though Sherlock could easily deduce most people as if it was nothing, he frequently found himself surprised by John, and he had also been trying to let him be honest, instead of simply figuring out what John was thinking and feeling for himself. He never wanted his lover to feel inferior or like he didn't have the choice of being honest when he chose to be. He was entitled to his secrets, even if it drove Sherlock crazy sometimes to not know exactly what was going on with him.

"I was just thinking that when it rains, it really does pour. But I'm not sure I think of that as a bad thing, when I know you'll always be here to shelter me from the storm and hold me even when everything else is terrible and a complete mess. I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you too, John. And I am happy to be here to hold you." And he was. It was strange, Sherlock realized, that he could be so happy and maintain that happiness. There was a little voice in the back of his head that warned that things wouldn't be perfect all the time, and that he shouldn't get complacent, but he waved it off for the moment; John made him feel incredible, and he would hold onto that, no matter what the world through at them.


	15. Mr Brightside

**A/N: None of you hate me, please. I know it probably hurts to go right back to angst when things were going so swimmingly, but this kind of needed to happen. No relationship is perfect, and these are some of the issues that these two do need to work through before they can experience their happily ever after. If it makes you feel better, I will fix this, and their relationship will be even stronger as a result. Just bear with me!**

**The song is "Mr. Brightside," by The Killers, and even though I really, really didn't want to write this chapter, I had to address John's past with all his women, so this is my way of doing that. I hope, despite all that, that you enjoy this.**

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Sherlock had done a good job of shoving down his lingering doubts and another month passed in relative bliss. The two of them solved crimes, John continued to blog about it, and Sherlock continued to forget his pants, sometimes on purpose, and things went swimmingly. The first hint of trouble actually blindsided the genius.

He was about ten minutes late meeting John at the coffee shop, and he was moving quickly as he entered. It was a lovely March day, and he'd just been finishing up an experiment when John had texted him and asked him to meet him at the little shop just down the street. He'd promised to be there earlier, but hadn't anticipated a small chemical reaction that had required his attention so that the flat wouldn't burn down in his absence. He was still thinking about it as he swung the door open and swept in, which is probably why he only realized when he was almost at the table that his lover was not alone.

And the fact that John was smiling the woman sitting across from him, resting her hand on the back of his where it sat on the table beside his tea, was not lost on him.

"Sherlock. Hey." John looked up then, and his smile got a little wider. There was no guilt in his eyes, so the consulting detective forced himself to relax, no matter that jealousy was clawing at him insistently. He wasn't a saint, like John; he did _not_ share what was his, and he did consider John his.

"This is Candy." Sherlock searched his memories for the name, came up with a vague sense of recognition that told him that John had dated her once, and only once. Judging by the slight annoyance on the woman's face before she plastered on a fake smile and offered her hand to him, she'd been one of the ones whose first date with the doctor had been interrupted by one of his texts. He felt a vicious sense of pleasure at that fact, and offered her an equally fake smile as he shook her hand instead of kissing the back of it as she'd clearly been expecting.

"I don't believe we've met." Sherlock pulled a chair over to the table for himself and sat down, angling himself so he and John were sitting very close, with Candy on the other side of the table. It was a subtle but pointed gesture, one that created a flash of anger in Candy's eyes.

"No, we haven't. I was away from London for a while after John and I went out, but I'm back now." Candy lowered her eyes as if ashamed then, and Sherlock felt John, at his side, soften instantly in sympathy. He wanted to roll his eyes at the deliberate ploy, but felt it was a discussion better had at home.

"You were just talking about that. Go on, Candy." John sounded exactly the way he used to sound when he was taking simpering morons out on dates before, and Sherlock gritted his teeth while a brief smile flashed on the woman's face.

Sherlock told himself that he was doing just fine while the two talked, doing his absolute best to ignore their conversation in favor of deducing every last little detail about the woman. His heart lurched uncomfortably when he read one particular detail—homeless since her last boyfriend kicked her out—and realized where the conversation was heading.

He could see it all playing out in his head, even as John suggested, much to Sherlock's dismay, that she could stay with them for a few days while she figured things out. It hurt, more than he'd expected it to hurt, that John would make the offer without so much as consulting him. He knew that the simpering idiot sitting across the table with gleaming eyes thought she'd be spending her nights in John's bed, and either John was unaware of the direction of her thoughts… or he was not completely opposed to the idea.

"Shall we go home, then?" John rose and paid the tab, and Sherlock wrenched his mind away from the images dancing in his head—Candy and John, stripping down as they'd done only the night before and making each other sigh and moan as they stepped over her discarded dress on the way to the bed, before tumbling onto it and making each other scream. He'd just reached the part where Candy would produce a cigarette from somewhere—he wasn't sure where, exactly—and offered John a drag he would probably accept in the spirit of things when John glanced back at him, already halfway to the door with Candy wrapped around his arm like she owned him. He didn't pull away.

"I have to go to the morgue." Sherlock said abruptly, heading in that direction with his hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders hunched against a sharp, cold wind. It was strange, he thought; the weather had been so nice only that morning. He should have known it couldn't stay that way, with storm clouds looming overhead.

He didn't end up going to the morgue. For a long time he just wandered around, ignoring the sting of rain and the unrelenting force of the wind that blew it with incredible aim right into his face, until he realized it was late. And he definitely didn't want to leave those two alone, in the dark…

Shaking his head, Sherlock started back toward the flat, before it occurred to him that if he didn't at least show up with some mildly gruesome body part, John would be suspicious. So he directed his feet toward the morgue and arrived ten minutes later, sodding wet and shivering just a bit.

Molly took one look at him and headed into the little backroom, making him a cup of hot coffee, or at least what passed for coffee at the morgue, while sending off a quick text to Greg. He would, she knew, know what to do with the dripping consulting detective who was currently making the floor of the morgue rather slippery.

When she emerged, he'd shucked off his jacket, and was rubbing red hands together. It had been storming for a few hours, and she could only guess that he'd been out in it since the beginning, judging by his appearance. She wondered what had happened, that John had let him go and risk getting severely sick like that. Deciding it really wasn't any of her business, she simply handed him the coffee and resumed her examination of the latest homicide victim to get wheeled through her door. It had been a simple case, so Sherlock hadn't been called in, but she spoke out loud as she worked now so he could pay attention, or not, as he wanted.

Molly's voice soothed him a little as he sipped at his coffee, holding it in his shaking hands even though the heat was rather unpleasant against his chilly hands. He nearly fumbled it a few times, but without asking the mortician had turned up the heat in the room a little, so that by the time Mycroft and Greg arrived, he was nearly back to his usual completely composed self.

"I'll just leave you boys alone, then. I'll be in my office. Take as long as you need down here." The mousy, sweet woman left without another word, while Mycroft looked his brother up and down, reading in his body language, the faint stain on his collar, and the state of his jacket everything that had gone on that day.

"So John's brought home one of his old girlfriends. Why are you here, then, when you could be at home fighting for what's yours?"

Because Mycroft cut so easily to the heart of the problem, Sherlock couldn't resist the need to snarl at him. He had to lash out at _someone_, after all. Best that it was his brother, who already knew he wasn't the target of Sherlock's rage.

"And why are you here, when you were in the middle of a rather lewd act involving a can of whipped cream and chocolate body paint when you received the text?" Greg blushed at this, but Mycroft simply watched his brother calmly until Sherlock sighed, unwrapping one hand from around the mug to wipe some rain off his face, trying to find composure in the gesture. He knew Mycroft was right; it was just hard to admit, when love and feelings of betrayal, however unfounded, were warring inside him. He wasn't used to dealing with these kinds of emotions, and would be the first to admit that they threw him off his game.

"Maybe I should be there. I just… How could he invite her to stay with us? She was practically throwing herself at him, and he just sat there like that sort of thing happens every day. Does it happen every day for him? And if so, how many times has he contemplated doing this? I don't understand why he would do this, Mycroft."

Sherlock looked so broken that Mycroft couldn't resist pulling him into a hug, relief flooding him when his little brother hugged back willingly, tightly, clinging a little as he had done all those years ago as a child. Greg, who truthfully had no idea at all what was going on, simply stood to the side and watched the moment of brotherly love unfold.

"I can't explain why your doctor would do this, Sherlock, but there has to be a good explanation. I'll tell you what… I'll send someone over there and have her put up in a hotel until she finds another shoulder to cry on, and she'll be out of your hair by the time you get back home." When Sherlock nodded at this, relieved, Mycroft went ahead and called one of his agents, one who was usually tasked with watching out for Sherlock and wasn't at all surprised by the request. Ten minutes after that, while Greg and Sherlock were talking about one of their cases and the trial results, he received a text letting him know a car was on the way, and nodded before sliding his phone back in his pocket.

"Shall we give you a lift back to Baker Street, then? The problem is being taken care of." Mycroft secretly wondered what sort of trouble would greet his little brother there, as John was sure to feel a little betrayed by the removal of the woman from their residence, and he hoped that the two of them could work it out.

"If you like. I could take a taxi, if you want to get back to what you were doing." Sherlock was teasing now as the three of them exited the building, Mycroft not bothering with his umbrella as they piled into the waiting car. It whisked them off as Greg blushed and Mycroft mildly commented that it was truly none of his little brother's business, and it wasn't long before Sherlock was getting out of the car, which pulled away after he'd unlocked the street door.

Heading up the steps with a lighter heart, Sherlock was surprised to hear raised voices coming from their flat. Had he arrived a little too soon, then, and Candy was still there?

He'd just opened the door when Candy threw herself at John, smashing her lips against his right when he was in the middle of a sentence. He reached up reflexively to catch her just as he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, eyes wide with hurt and betrayal so vivid that it sent a bolt of pain right through John. He quickly shoved Candy away, but the damage was already done; Sherlock slammed the door to his room and the lock clicked immediately after, a sign that he wasn't going to let John in to explain.

"Hello, Mr. Watson? Mr. Holmes sent a car for Candy Hillman. He says that he's rented her a suite at the Four Seasons for her." The young man, who was obviously both a driver and one of Mycroft's people, strode into the room and grabbed Candy's bags before heading downstairs, obviously expecting her to follow him. Since John had just rejected her advances, Candy turned on heel and followed without another word, leaving John standing there in the silence.

The car had come far too soon for Sherlock to have texted Mycroft and requested it after the kiss. That meant that either Mycroft had seen Candy enter the flat and figured things out on his own… or that Sherlock had been upset about her staying with them and had decided to have his brother deal with it instead of talking it over with John.

Not sure if he was angry or ashamed, John crossed the room and pounded on Sherlock's door in a way that made it obvious he wasn't going to be ignored. The lock clicked and the door was wrenched open, a furious Sherlock standing on the other side with his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"What the fuck do you _want_?" He snarled at his flat mate—he wasn't sure what they were now, truth be told—as he tried to force down the pain. Now he understood why people committed crimes of passion. He'd seen Candy pressing her lips against John's and had wanted, badly, to wrap his hands around her throat. He was glad she was gone now, so he wouldn't have to look at her. It was bad enough looking at John, though he was doing a very good job of looking anywhere _but_ at him.

"It was only a kiss. And I wasn't going to let her take it any further. And what the fuck is up with you setting your brother on us like that? Do you not trust me? If that's the case, you'd better say it now." John felt his own anger mounting, even as he tried to see Sherlock's side. It was wrong of him to have not trusted John, no matter that he was right to have not trusted Candy. The flash of guilt he felt for that only made his anger burn brighter.

"Maybe I don't trust you! How could I, when you could so easily bring that trollop into our home and invite her to get nice and cozy without ever even _asking_ if it was okay. Maybe this sort of thing was fine before we got together, John, but there is absolutely no excuse for having done so now. You're not free and single now—you can't just act like you are."

"Well maybe I should be, if you can't even trust me to keep my hands to myself while a friend crashes here for a few days to get her feet under her!"  
"She had no interest in getting anything but the mattress under her, and you above her! And maybe you should be, too, if you think so little of me that you could just let her hang all over you like you aren't with me! Since you so obviously want out of this, here's your perfect opportunity. Goodnight." Sherlock slammed the door with that, sliding down it and burying his face in his hands.

He could hardly believe the ugly things he'd said, or the truly horrible things John had said back. Was their relationship really so fragile? Even though it was his first time at that sort of thing, he knew that, unless two parties were in an agreement that it was an open relationship, it was more than a bit not good to bring someone home. But John had just been trying to help her, and Sherlock probably should have trusted him…

Feeling the tears filtering between his fingers, he realized that there truly were no good answers. And all he knew in that moment was that he was not quite ready to deal with the fallout of Candy's visit. Forcing himself to his feet, because he couldn't very well stay pressed against the door all night, Sherlock curled up in his bed, alone for the first time in months, and let his tears stain the pillow until his ducts were just as empty and hollow as he felt inside.

John stared at the closed door for a long time, struggling to get his breathing under control. He truly hadn't meant to snap at Sherlock as he had, but the fact that Sherlock hadn't trusted him truly hurt. He knew they had both done things that were wrong, and he hated himself a little for that as he slowly climbed the stairs to his own, empty, bed.

Neither man slept easily that night, Sherlock tormented by images of the kiss and John fighting the sick churning in his stomach as they both dreamed of what it would be like to be without the other for the first time since Sherlock's return.

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**Now might seem like a strange time to mention this, but when I finish with this story, I'm planning to do more with Johnlock and Mystrade. That means that I'll be needing to come up with new concepts for how their relationships start and progress. If anyone who reads this has a prompt they would like to see someone write, I would be happy to do so. Anything at all, from serious to silly- just let me know what you want to see, and I'll try my hand at it. Thanks!**


	16. The Scientist

**A/N: Now we have the titular chapter, wherein the boys make up and the boys finally, _finally_ have that talk they've been needing to have about emotions. If you were waiting for a turning point in our little tale, this is it. This is where they kind of both get over themselves, have that moment of air-clearing confession that makes them acknowledge they can't and don't want to live without each other. There is more to come, however, even after this little segment. I have a feeling you'll quite enjoy tomorrow's chapter, but tomorrow isn't here yet. So for now, enjoy!**

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Sherlock woke with gritty eyes, somewhere around three in the morning, or so he guessed. He still felt exhausted, and incredibly sad, but he did feel capable of moving now.

Part of him wanted to just leave, right then, while John was still asleep in his room and wouldn't wake up to stop him… or even worse, not try to stop him. That was a possibility, he knew now, and he hated that. No matter that he was still hurt, confused, and upset, he knew he didn't want to spend the rest of his life without John. He wished he could go back to the beginning and fix all his mistakes, but he knew he couldn't. He could only hope now that John would be willing to try with him to patch all the cracks they'd made in each other the night before.

He knew he could take the easy road, and just walk away now, without trying to bridge the gap between them. But love wasn't easy, and wasn't supposed to be easy. He hadn't thought it would be quite so hard, of course, but he knew that things that were easy were very rarely worthwhile. John made him happier than any case ever could, so it made sense that the loss of him would drop him to a lower depth than he'd ever before experienced. Sherlock knew he would have to apologize, and accept John's apologies, if they were going to have any hope of making it work. But he loved John too much to not try.

Creeping quietly out of his room, he went to the living room, where his violin waited for him. He closed his eyes and slowly began to play, John's favorite sad song leaving the strings as he slowly swayed, holding the violin as he wished he could hold the man who owned his heart. Gently, he coaxed the music to life, letting it build higher and faster until it reached crescendo, easing back into slow, sweet notes of acceptance and letting go. Just after the music peaked he heard John's stairs creaking, but he didn't waver. The song was a message and an apology all in one, and he needed to make sure John understood that.

"I'm surprised you didn't leave in the middle of the night," John commented softly, his voice raw and solemn. Sherlock nearly winced to hear it, and when he set his violin aside it still took him a moment to turn and look in John's direction, hope and fear competing inside him.

"You are far too important for me to do that, John. I love you, and I need you, and you occupy a place in my life that no one else could ever take."

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. It stuck up at strange angles, but instead of being irritated by it, Sherlock found it oddly cute. Anyone else, he would have harassed, but he set John apart, put him in an entirely different category. He could be himself with John, and that was a luxury he had with no one else. He hoped desperately that they would be okay, even as he shoved his hands in his pockets to try and still their shaking.

"Shall we sit down, then, to discuss this?" John looked just as tired and miserable as he felt, and why that should give Sherlock hope, he didn't know. Still, he was getting better at trusting his emotions, and sank silently into his chair, eyes never leaving John's face. He wouldn't allow himself to deduce, even now, but was trying to read what the doctor was feeling by his eyes, as that was an acceptable way of analyzing someone, or so he'd been taught.

"Look, Sherlock… I get why you were angry. I'm not like you; I couldn't just let her wind up on the streets, if I could help it. I guess it didn't occur to me that you would mind if she bunked in my room while I stayed with you in yours. It didn't occur to me that you might think… well, what you obviously thought. But you should know that I don't keep secrets from you, and that I won't lie to you or run around behind your back. That's never been my style, and I don't plan to do it with you. I assumed you would take it in stride, just like you always take everything else, and that your cool, scientist's mind wouldn't even be bothered. Instead, you completely overreacted and had your brother get rid of her like you didn't trust me to handle things appropriately."

"It's not that I don't trust you, John." Sherlock said quietly, wanting to make that point very clear. Whatever else happened, he needed John's friendship. "I love you, and I didn't think you were planning to cheat on me. Not logically. I'll admit that I was afraid, and that I definitely didn't trust her, but John, you have to understand that I've never done this before. I don't know what the appropriate reaction is when my significant other brings a girl home, but all I could think was how you could easily fall into bed with her… and I would be alone again. And the scientist in me can't speak half was loud as my heart, where it comes to you." Sherlock's voice broke a little on the last words, and he looked down at the floor, rather than meet John's gaze when he felt so horrible.

"Sherlock… if I do something that hurts or upsets you, you can tell me about it. I won't get mad. If Candy staying here made you uncomfortable, we could have figured something else out together. You do have the right to question me when it comes to things like that, you know."

"I don't know, though, John. If we're being completely honest here, I don't know how to act when it comes to this sort of thing. I didn't even know how to have friends before you, let alone a lover. I don't know the first thing about being in a relationship. All I know is that the thought of losing you is more than I can stand. You're this incredible puzzle I can never figure out, and I love that about you. You're the only one who can make me feel this way, and I need you in my life."

Heart breaking at the pain in Sherlock's voice, John found he could no longer resist the need to hold him, reassure himself that they weren't completely lost. A fight he could handle, but he'd come to the conclusion, somewhere between falling asleep and waking up, that he would fight to keep Sherlock until his last breath. He meant more to him than anyone, and he would sacrifice everything, including his pride, if it meant they could stay together.

Crossing, he pulled Sherlock up and into his arms, and was a little surprised when the taller man wrapped his arms around him and held on tight, as if he was afraid that someone was going to take John away from him or something. That was never going to happen, John knew. He loved him far too much to allow anything to come between the two of them. He just needed to prove that, so that Sherlock would believe it without a shadow of a doubt.

"I love you, Sherlock. Tell me we can make this work. Tell me that losing you won't haunt me for the rest of my life, because you'll stay and we'll figure this out together. I need to know that we can fix this." John's voice was unsteady as he poured out his fears, and he felt Sherlock's arms tighten around him, making his heart twist uncomfortably.

"I love you, John. And nothing could make me give up on you. I was just so terrified that you wanted more than I could give you, and I… I know that I'm not perfect, and I still don't understand why you're with me most of the time, but my heart, which no one but you ever really believed I possess, is yours completely."

Sherlock felt incredibly vulnerable as he stripped his fears bare, but he knew it was necessary. John held him tighter, drawing him back to the couch where they curled up together, holding on tight.

"You do realize that no one holds a candle to you, right? You are the loveliest person I have ever met, both inside and out, and I am so, so sorry if I let you think for even a second that you don't mean everything to me. I spent all those years dating women I didn't really care about because I was searching for someone I could love with everything in me, and who would feel the same way. I never found it with any of them, and for the longest time, I wondered why. I now understand that it's because I was searching for you that entire time. And now that I've found you, you're not getting rid of me this easily."

Sherlock let out a sound between a snort and a laugh, before burying his face against John's shoulder. He felt a little giddy, undoubtedly from the relief that had seized him by the time the doctor finished speaking, and he knew he was shaking. John, seeming to understand his feelings perfectly, simply stroked a soothing hand down his back and let him work his way through it patiently.

"I love you, John. Truly, I do. I never thought myself capable of loving anyone, but you've proven me wrong. You're the reason I know how to love, the reason I care so much. I know it was stupid to be jealous, and I'm sorry for it. My only excuse is that I wouldn't have a life, just an existence, if you weren't here by my side."

"Oh, Sherlock." Pulling back a little so he could look at his lover, John carded his fingers through the silky, dark locks, loving the way Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the caress, nearly boneless from tiredness and relief. "You do realize that I feel the same, right? I was lost before you, in so many ways. You've made me the happiest man alive. Did you really think that I was going to throw that all away for some empty-headed woman who thinks that the only way to be happy is through money or sex? I think you should give me a little more credit than that, considering I tend to go more for the tall, brainy types these days."

Sherlock blushed a little at that, obviously feeling a little foolish, and cuddled back in, making John laugh. It felt good to feel happy again, and he continued to pet his lover until they were both starting to doze.

"I think perhaps we should move this to the bedroom, before we fall asleep out here. I don't know about you, but I didn't get any real rest, away from you." John's voice was sleepy, and Sherlock knew he was close to falling asleep, too. But there was just one more thing he wanted to express before they fell asleep.

"I want to play you something first, John." It felt almost wrong to speak out loud now, so Sherlock whispered, and John nodded slowly, eyes half closed. He was fading fast, now that the pain and anger had been replaced with love, and he hoped he could stay awake long enough to hear whatever it was Sherlock planned to play.

The tall man rose gracefully, gently settling John so his back rested against the back of the couch, just on the chance that he couldn't stay awake. Then he began to play, this time choosing the song he'd written for John the first week he'd been back. When tears sprang to the older man's eyes, Sherlock knew he recognized it, though he'd never acknowledged the two in the morning concerts that Sherlock had put on for him for the first month, until John's nightmares had stopped waking him up screaming in the middle of the night.

The piece finished and Sherlock stood there and looked at his lover warily, wondering if he would consider the piece appropriate, all things considered. It had been written as an apology, and essentially followed their story from the beginning. He hadn't expanded on it since they'd entered their relationship, but that was for the best. The piece had served its purpose then, and was doing so now, and that was enough. He would write a new song dedicated to their relationship, but for that night, sleep was more important than writing another song. And he would actually be able to rest now, with John at his side.

"Shall we go to bed then, love?" Sherlock whispered, and John nodded, rising to his feet unsteadily and letting Sherlock lead him by the hand to the downstairs bedroom.

"I think it would be for the best if you just moved your things down here, on a permanent basis. If you're in agreement, that is." Sherlock murmured as they curled up, and John smiled a little, falling asleep before he could find words enough to give an affirmative answer. His facial expression was enough, and Sherlock fell asleep almost immediately after an answer smile formed on his own face. The scientist and the doctor slept peacefully that night, satisfied that the chemistry and caring between them was enough to survive any threat that came their way.


	17. I Do

**A/N: So we're clear: You didn't miss anything, they're not actually getting married in this chapter, it's just that the perfect song came with a title that might lead you to believe that. It will, however, at least give you a hint as to the direction this chapter takes our story, if the first sentence somehow didn't get it across. That said, the song is "I Do" by Colbie Caillat, and I truly hope you like this chapter.**

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Sherlock stared broodily at the table in front of him, on which a small black box sat, open. It was a position he'd never thought he'd be in, but now that he was, he wondered how he could have ever thought that he and John wouldn't end up in love, and how he'd ever imagined this wouldn't be the next logical step.

He'd always believed that relationships were a waste of time. The Work had been the most important thing in his life, and he'd been certain that there was no point in trying to form an attachment to another living person. He'd lived his life by the theory that caring wasn't an advantage, and had never intended to change that. But somehow, he'd found his other half, and he was now more than certain of what he wanted.

The ring gleamed in the box as he picked it up and examined it, slipping it out of the foam so he could hold it with those long, nimble fingers. The band was silver and sturdy, something John was sure to appreciate, with a star sapphire set into the center. It was a rare color, the jeweler had told Sherlock, and had had a price tag to go with it. But once he'd seen it, he'd known it was just right.

The stone was the exact color of John's eyes, with a star gleaming in the heart of it. It wasn't something everyone would see, of course; one had to be close to notice that there was more beneath the surface. It was, then, the perfect metaphor for John. Seemingly ordinary, but with something extraordinary beneath.

There were many people, he didn't doubt, that would assume that his proposal was another experiment, or a game of some sort, but those people would be wrong. He'd never felt anything like the love he felt for John, and he needed to know that John felt the same. Sherlock had never imagined that he would want to tie himself to another living person in any kind of permanent way, but now he was almost desperate to do so.

He and John hadn't talked about it, but their relationship had lasted for more than four months, and with the exception of the incident with the idiotic slut and that time John had yelled at him after a case, Sherlock had never been happier in his life. And he knew that the fact that they'd been able to get through those problems was more proof that they belonged together. If they hadn't gone through it all, he might never have been sure that John did love him. Now, there was no doubt in his mind, and he needed to see to it that John was his, for the rest of his life.

Sherlock believed that some things just had to be black and white. Two people were in love, or they weren't. Two people who were in love were supposed to stay together, as long as they were able. The only logical thing to do, when two people were in love, was to get married, and stay together permanently.

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Sherlock?" Mycroft and John were back on good terms again, though it had been a frosty week before Mycroft had apologized before dismissing Candy, and Greg and Mycroft had come over while John was at work to help calm Sherlock down and help him prepare. He'd been fidgeting when they arrived—if pacing, muttering incoherently to himself, and occasionally picking up John's gun and shooting at the wall could be considered fidgeting—and Mrs. Hudson had been the one to summon them.

Mycroft had known Sherlock had gone to the jewelry store about a week ago, but everything had seemed fine, right up until that rather interesting phone call. He'd put two and two together instantly and interrupted a meeting with an actual minor diplomat to swing by the yard, pick Greg up, and rush over to Baker Street.

After Greg had wrangled the gun away from him, and Mycroft had gotten him to sit down and have a cuppa, Sherlock had temporarily retreated to the downstairs bedroom to bring the box out. He'd set it on the coffee table and opened it without a word of explanation, but it was fairly obvious what the ring was for, so even Greg had figured out what was going on. He and Mycroft were both a little amused by Sherlock's behavior, though they knew better than to voice that.

"Quite sure." Sherlock murmured, setting the ring back in the box for about five seconds. He then pulled it right back out, examining it again before resettling it nervously.

"Should we send out an invitation to Mummy and Father for the wedding, then?" The elder Holmes brother joked dryly, knowing that the best thing he could provide for Sherlock at the moment was a distraction. Just because he was certain of his own feelings didn't mean he wasn't terrified. He hadn't known how to be anything but alone until John had come into the picture, so marriage was a huge step for him, no matter who it was with.

Sherlock made a choking noise, just as the three of them heard the door downstairs opening and closing. Shoving the ring back into his pocket, Sherlock rose and instinctively grabbed his violin, beginning to play a fast-paced song that seemed almost choppy, the notes barely connecting in any recognizable way.

Mycroft and Greg, settled on the couch, exchanged a glance and a small smile before launching into a conversation about the Yard's latest case, one Sherlock had been asked to consult on. When John came in, he just assumed they were still trying to talk the consulting detective into helping with it, and headed to the bedroom to change.

Sherlock shot the two of them a glare as soon as the doctor was out of the room, and Mycroft stood up instantly, understanding the gesture perfectly. He hugged his little brother and told him good luck, and then he and Greg headed for the door, calling goodbye to John as they went.

As soon as the two of them had gone, Sherlock's nerves took hold again, and he began to play another song, this one a piece John had never heard before. The doctor thought it strange that Sherlock should be composing something that actually sounded nice if he was working on a case, but then, Sherlock did a great many strange things, so he wasn't surprised.

He'd been thinking, for a while now, that he needed to figure out a good way to propose. He'd been toying with the idea of asking Mycroft for help with finding the perfect ring, and was a little disappointed that the other two had left so soon. He decided he'd text later and ask the politician for help, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hide the purchase from Sherlock without a little help.

That thought reminded John so much of the way he and Sherlock had briefly snuck Greg away to get his ring that he had to smile as he went into the kitchen and made himself a cuppa. It had been a good night, and one of the first times he and Sherlock had really worked together after his return to London. Their relationship had been so fragile in those days, but now, it was stronger than ever.

He'd never wanted to be with anyone more. He'd dated many women before he had fallen for Sherlock, but he'd been happy to not fall in love, happy to know his relationships were impermanent, and that he would bring home someone new every weekend and never get attached. All that had changed now, and he was happy to be with Sherlock, to know they belonged together. He'd never wanted anything half so much as a future with the man who was his, the man he wanted to remain his.

"Care for some supper, Sherlock?" John called from the kitchen, only to hear the taller man come up behind him, just before wiry arms wrapped around his waist and he felt that soft, curly hair brushing against his cheek as Sherlock rested his chin on his shoulder.

"Why don't we go out tonight? You had a long day at work, and I'm sure you don't feel like cooking. Let me take you to supper. It'll be a proper date; I might even let you talk me into eating." Sherlock had been working on his plan ever since he'd acquired the ring, and had expected to be nervous the entire time. Now that John was home, however, those nerves had melted away under the weight of the sheer _rightness_ of what they had together. He flirted casually, a habit he'd fallen into when they were alone together, and was relieved when John relaxed against him and turned his head to claim a kiss.

"Sounds fine by me. Should I get dressed in something fancier? I dressed for staying in." John glanced down at his clothes, changed only because he had been vomited on that day by a small child and had had to shower and change into a spare set of scrubs while at the office. Now casually garbed in jeans and a button down, he nonetheless looked just fine to Sherlock, who shook his head.

"I hardly think Angelo is going to care what you look like, John. He's used to us strolling in at all hours and not always dressed neatly."

"Angelo's. We haven't been there in a while." John mused, letting Sherlock take his hand and lead him back to the door, help him into his coat before donning his own. They held hands as they walked down the street, chatting about the case Lestrade had been asking them to take, John's day at work, even how lovely the early May weather was. Sherlock had to keep talking about random things in order to not give himself away, and John was happy enough to talk about anything, to hear that low baritone voice respond to him, even laugh from time to time.

Once they were settled at the table, Angelo immediately came out and told Sherlock, yet again, how wonderful it was to see him and John together. The cheerful Italian then brought out a huge plate of spaghetti for John, as well as a small, empty plate for Sherlock. The consulting detective sometimes took a small portion and plated it up for himself, but other times, they just shared off one plate, with John having to talk Sherlock into every bite.

Tonight, they shared a plate, but Sherlock willingly ate about one bite for every three of John's. He looked a bit paler than normal, and John made a mental note of it, telling himself that soon, in between cases, he would take the consulting detective on a mini vacation, someplace where he would get a little bit of sun, and maybe relax for a week.

"This is really nice. And you're not even arguing about eating. What's up?" John asked, more amused by Sherlock's behavior than anything else. He felt a little bit suspicious, granted, but he was used to Sherlock doing bizarre things. He usually didn't have an ulterior motive where it came to his blogger, these days. Sherlock just tended to display his emotions in somewhat quirky ways, and it was obvious from the look in his eyes that he was trying very hard to impress his lover, for whatever reason.

"Why should anything have to be up for me to want to give you a pleasant night?" Sherlock's voice was silky, but something flickered in his eyes, sharpening John's interest. Something didn't _have_ to be going on, but something definitely was.

"Something's going on with you. Spill." John smiled and kissed Sherlock, something they rarely did in public. The gesture was designed to gentle the command, but Sherlock looked surprisingly nervous, even biting his lower lip anxiously.

"I… Well, you weren't supposed to catch onto it yet. I had planned to order you dessert. Something with large quantities of chocolate to stimulate the endorphins in your brain so you would be in a particularly good mood for this next part. I wanted to leave nothing to chance, you see." Sherlock's hands were shaking ever so slightly as he slid from his chair to go smoothly down on one knee, pulling the box out of his pocket and nearly fumbling it due to an uncharacteristic lack of grace.

"John, when we first had dinner here, I told you I was married to my Work. I never imagined that I would ever find anything or anyone who would mean half so much to me. You've proven me wrong so many times, in so many ways, and I have never been more grateful to be wrong in my entire life."

Reaching up and taking John's hand with his free one, Sherlock looked into his eyes and smiled in a way only John had ever seen or caused.

"You are the one thing I won't live without, or let go of. You mean more to me than anything, including the Work. I would choose you over it in a heartbeat, every day for the rest of my life. I love you, and if you would do me the honor of becoming my fiancée, and then my husband, I will do my very best to never screw things up or let you down, keep the body parts in the fridge to a minimum and always, always cherish you for the rest of my days. Marry me, John Watson. Marry me because I love you, and will never, never stop."

Sherlock let go of his hand to open the box, then, and carefully plucked the ring out. John actually felt tears burning the backs of his eyes, reflected in the softness of Sherlock's own, and he let out a watery laugh as Sherlock slipped the ring on his finger. It was a perfect fit, of course. He really wasn't surprised.

"I love you, Sherlock. Yes, yes, yes. I will marry you, and I will love you until the day I die. We'll either grow old together or go out in a blaze of glory, and it won't matter either way, because as long as I'm with you, I will never have any regrets."

John pulled Sherlock to his feet and kissed him then, passionately, holding him close while the entire staff, as well as the few patrons, whistled and applauded the two of them. They laughed and held each other tighter, both experiencing incredible relief. _Finally_ was the only thing going through their minds at the moment, Sherlock's oddly calm.

Just then Angelo came out with a small chocolate cake, _congratulations _scrawled across the middle in elegant script. Mycroft and Greg, who sat across the restaurant wearing broad grins, had arranged for it as soon as they'd arrived. The elder Holmes had known where Sherlock would want to propose, and had reacted accordingly.

"Come celebrate with us then, if you two are going to sit over there watching us all night!" John summoned the two of them over when he saw them, and the four of them sat there and had cake.

When they were finished, Sherlock and John went home, and John fixed a cuppa for both of them, Sherlock played a romantic ballad on his violin, and they went to bed together, though they didn't get much sleep. It felt like nothing had changed, and everything had changed, all at once. Once, they had both feared permanent commitment. Now, when they fell asleep, they both dreamed about the day they would say "I do." And instead of fear, all they felt was love and joy.


	18. Glad You Came

**A/N: Before we begin, I'd just like to clarify that the title of this piece is not a bad sex joke. It's actually based off the song "Glad You Came" by The Wanted, and is not referring to sex at all (though I will give you some of that in this chapter, my dears.) You'll get the meaning as you read, I'm sure, so I won't bore you with an explanation. Enjoy!**

* * *

John stared at the letter in his hand, elegant script casually scrawled over thick white cardstock that was undoubtedly expensive. It was an invitation, and the corners of his lips turned upward in amusement when he read it once, then twice, smiling wider the second time. He'd seen Sherlock's writing hundreds of times before, of course, but never on anything quite like this. He had a feeling that Mycroft had had something to do with the quality of the card, but the words were pure Sherlock.

_"If convenient," _he'd written, _"arrive at The Red Lion at half seven for a celebration of the forthcoming union of William Sherlock Scott Holmes and John Hamish Watson. If inconvenient, come anyway."_ The card was unsigned, but then, it was obvious who'd written it.

The doctor had just gotten home from surgery, and it was nearly six o'clock now. That gave him time to clean up, change, and take care of anything else that might need tending to, within reason, before heading out. It was a nice night, so a jacket was optional. He thought he might wear his old leather jacket just because it made Sherlock's eyes light up when he wore it, and the consulting detective typically took great joy in peeling him out of it.

Just as he was about to put the card on his nightstand, he noticed a small, discreet arrow at the bottom that indicated that he should turn it over. Amused, he did so, only to find three words, in that same writing, that made him laugh.

_"Could be dangerous."_ Still chuckling over the comment a little over an hour later, John found his way down to the pub he and Greg most often went to when they wanted to complain about their respective Holmes brothers and their adorable but infuriating tendencies. It was only about a block from Greg and Mycroft's flat. The sun was just going down, but there was enough light that he could see something white sticking in the small window in the door. When he read the sign on the door, which stated that no one without an invitation could enter, he rolled his eyes but smiled a little, knowing that Mycroft had bought the place out for the night. Or perhaps Sherlock had—neither man was a fan of public places like this, and they would want it to be both completely secure and private, which meant he would have to allow for their slightly paranoid natures.

The breath rushed out of him as soon as he walked through the door. He was spellbound, as if the floor had gone out from under him or the sky had fallen on him, watching the man he loved tilt his head back and take down the last of the contents of his bottle of beer. A drop of the amber liquid lingered on his lower lip as he turned to look at the door, tongue darting out reflexively to catch the last drop. Watching Sherlock lick his lips, John had to resist the urge to do the same.

Crossing the room, John was just reckless enough in lust and love in that moment to grab Sherlock's collar and pull him down for an enthusiastic kiss that had the entire room, which was full of their friends, cheer and whistle. When he pulled away, Sherlock looked as stunned as John felt, and the doctor grinned widely, reaching up to brush a loose curl away from the consulting detective's face.

"You're drinking my brand of beer," he said, amused, and Sherlock blushed a little bit.

"Well, as I have no experience in these matters, I chose to trust your judgment in regards to this particular beverage. I don't imagine that beer and wine taste very good together, and I have decided that your drink of choice isn't all that bad."

"I like the way you make it taste even more." John answered honestly, by which point Sherlock was turning absolutely scarlet.

Mike Stamford was among the first to come up and offer the happy couple congratulations, clasping them both on the shoulder and stating how he'd never imagined he was matchmaking when he put the two of them together as flat mates. He bustled off, then, full of good spirits in more ways than one, and John handed Sherlock another beer, eyes flashing in a silent dare to keep up with his pace, as Sarah came over.

"It's good to see you happy, John." The tidy doctor said, and John smiled at her, genuinely glad that they had managed to recover their friendship. Sherlock's hand found his, a subtle but undeniable gesture of possession, and Sarah glanced at their joined hands and smiled. Then she turned her gaze on Sherlock, stern eyes catching his.

"Don't hurt him. He's loved you for a very long time, and deserves someone amazing. You don't know how lucky you are." With that she headed off through the crowd, and John caught someone he didn't quite recognize touching her arm gently, leading her toward the other end of the bar with a friendly smile. His eyes narrowed—he hadn't thought Sherlock would have invited anyone he didn't know—and he turned to the consulting detective, who tugged on his collar and looked the tiniest bit anxious.

"Who is that, Sherlock?" John grew a little suspicious when Sherlock didn't answer immediately, taking another swig of his beer before setting the bottle down gently on the counter. Before he could answer several more people came along, and time slipped away from him a bit. It was nearly another hour before John managed to get Sherlock alone, catching him in a corner where, for a moment or two, no one would see them.

"Sherlock, are you going to tell me who that woman was, or am I going to have to go ask her myself?" John had been keeping an eye on her all evening, and he thought she looked familiar, with a fall of long, soft, dark hair, and eyes that sparkled with mirth…

"Oh," he exhaled, surprise widening his eyes. Sherlock looked at him sheepishly, obviously not sure whether he should stay and explain or start running. John solved the matter by snagging a barstool and having a seat, gesturing for his fiancée to explain.

"Well, I… You may have noticed that I was away from London for a time shortly before Mycroft came to you with the news that Irene Adler was killed." Sherlock bit his lip and looked down at his now empty beer—his third of the night—and John immediately drew his own conclusions.

"You saved her life. And now she's back." Jealousy didn't hit him immediately, since she'd not approached either of them all night and looked as if she was trying to talk Sarah into leaving with her, but it was still in the back of his mind, at least until Sherlock kissed him gently, looked into his eyes and shaking his head, a fond smile on his lips.

"She didn't come back for me, I can assure you. I believe Mycroft invited her, so that if either of us wished to have a word or two with her we could, but I did not invite her, and she knows that you and I are together. She wished me luck, before you arrived, and has barely so much as glanced over since. I believe she got over her crush on me. She knows that the love we share is all that counts, to me."

John, who knew that the woman had in fact been in love with him, doubted it was so simple. When he saw her looking over at them later that night with bittersweet sadness in her eyes, that thought was confirmed. But then she winked at him and went back to talking to Sarah, who was slowly leaning toward her, obviously attracted despite the fact that she was, usually, straight. He understood what Sherlock, who still struggled with emotions occasionally, did not.

Irene would never get completely over Sherlock. The genius was simply too remarkable, in a world full of ordinary, boring people. She would never meet her match quite like she had with him, and never be so pleased to have a weakness. But because she did truly care about him, instead of just coveting him, she was willing to let any chance the two of them might have had go, because he was in love, and was happy, and that was what truly mattered.

When it was nearly midnight, Sherlock took John by the hand, eyes sparkling as he tugged him out of the pub. For once, it was a spectacularly clear night, and the consulting detective wasted no time in taking his blogger up to the roof of his brother's flat, from where they could see the stars shining brightly. It was here, just as the clock struck twelve, that Sherlock pulled John into his arms and kissed him hard, not letting go until the chiming of the bells announcing the hour had long since faded to nothing, even the echoes no longer audible.

"You changed everything, the day we met. Did you know? You rewired my entire universe. I was a creature of logic and science, but you taught me how to feel again, gave me back my heart so I could love you with every beat of it." Sherlock was rarely given to poetic words or fancy, yet in that moment, it was so easy for him to let the words flow, words he knew John would need to hear from time to time. His John was a true romantic, and Sherlock had no problem with that, because being with his fiancée made him feel the same way.

"I will forever be glad you came to Baker Street that day, even though for all you knew I could have been a madman who kept his mother in the attic or something like that. You didn't even know me, but it felt like I'd known you forever. I didn't quite know how to trust that, but I also knew I never wanted to let you go. There were so many times I expected that it would become too much for you, and you'd pack up, take off, and forget all about me. But you never did. I love you so incredibly much, John."

Overcome with love due to the sweet, but so out of character words the taller man was offering him, John cupped his cheek and kissed him gently, trying to pour every ounce of love he felt into the gesture. The only light came to them from the moon and stars above, but it was enough that the two were able to look into each other's eyes and see one another clearly. Both were smiling, and the love that reflected in their eyes blazed like a thousand suns as they parted, only to come together again and again.

Eventually, the two of them went home, sharing secret glances every few seconds as they waited anxiously for Mycroft's long black car to drop them off.

"Shall I text Greg and Mycroft and thank them for the lovely party?" John asked a little breathlessly as the two of them thundered up the stairs. Sherlock practically dragged his blogger to their bedroom, laughing the entire time.

"They can wait until tomorrow. All I want to think about right now is you and me, here and now. Everything else can wait." The declaration was so unlike Sherlock, who had a tendency to forget they were in the middle of foreplay if an interesting case came up, that John had to laugh with him before tumbling him to the sheets in a fast move that the consulting detective, whose eyes went wide, obviously hadn't been expecting.

"Never stop surprising me." He told the shorter man, who kissed his neck even as he expertly got rid of his belt and started working on the buttons of the purple shirt that even now still gave him far too many ideas.

"I don't plan to," John said between kisses and licks, nibbling for good measure and earning a breathy gasp when he started sucking, leaving a mark that would linger. Sherlock's neck was one of his most sensitive erogenous zones, and John was very good at exploiting that.

On and on the two of them went, taking turns taking charge until they were both bare, the slivers of moonlight that streamed through the shutters casting light over their skin in ribbons as they moved together, crying out as they reached completion and cried out, one after the other.

After a second round in the shower, John left Sherlock in the bathroom trying to dry his hair a little better before sleeping. The curious consulting detective followed him to their room a minute later, only to find him sitting on the bed, a small smile on his face as he stared down at the invitation he'd received earlier that day. He looked up when Sherlock entered, but the smile didn't leave his face.

"I don't know what it was that brought us together, chemistry or timing or some entirely different kind of science only someone like you could understand, but I will never stop being grateful for it. I know this wasn't what either of us had planned for our lives to be like, but I have never regretted my decisions that day. I was always meant to be with you, whether it was convenient or not. It may have taken us a long time to get here, Sherlock, but there's no doubt in my mind that this is exactly where I'm meant to be, and exactly where I _want_ to be."

John lay back and beckoned for Sherlock to join him, and they curled up together as the sun rose, falling asleep in each other's arms, in no hurry for once to rush on to the next case or the next moment because they were both exactly where they wanted to be. And even though Sherlock's scientific mind rebelled at the idea that anything could be perfect, the hours they spent wrapped around each other were, he would admit later only to himself, exactly that.


	19. True Love

**A/N: Okay, so we all know that, to put it bluntly, Sherlock has a tendency of cocking things up when it comes to emotions. In order to do the Work, he has to divorce himself from the pesky things and focus solely on the facts, which means that sometimes, nasty things are going to slip out of his mouth, things that the Old Sherlock would have considered the gospel and New Sherlock would never actually think. This chapter shows that, and also gave me the perfect opportunity to give Mycroft and John a heart to heart, something you haven't seen yet here. **

**The song is "True Love," by P!nk (featuring Lily Allen) and I hope you like what I've done with it.**

* * *

John could only blink at Sherlock.

"I seriously can't believe you just said that." Normally, the doctor dealt really well with what he thought of as "Sherlockisms." This category included, but was not limited to, things like leaving body parts in the fridge and occasionally making a scathing comment about someone who really didn't deserve it. But rarely, rarely did Sherlockisms bother John, who was so used to them after several years' acquaintance with the younger man that he sometimes found himself smiling when he should have been reminding Sherlock something he'd just said was "a bit not good."

"I… John, I'm sorry." Sherlock couldn't find words, when his fiancée was standing there staring at him as if he'd grown two heads.

In order to be able to perform well at crime scenes, he had to shut out his heart and focus completely with his mind. Sometimes, this meant that he went back to the way he'd been before John, at least for a few moments. Falling back in time had several unfortunate consequences, such as his tendency to forget that those around him were anything but annoyances to be patronized and insulted when they, inevitably, screwed something up.

But he knew it had been more than a bit not good, as John would say, to repeat his former mantra, that love was just a chemical defect, and obviously wasn't a good enough motivator for the crime of passion that had led to the young man on the floor in front of them having literally been gutted while alive. He had gone on to say that anyone who would kill for love was a complete moron. If he allowed himself to consider the lengths he would go to for John, he had to admit that his observation had been _wrong_, in addition to callous. But with John looking at him with pain in his eyes, knuckles white where he was clenching them at his sides, Sherlock couldn't have cared less about being wrong. All he wanted to know was how to _fix_ what he'd just said.

Before Sherlock could apologize further, John just held up a hand, shaking his head when Sherlock would have spoken anyway. A little lost—they always talked things out when one or the other was hurt or bothered these days, after the mess they'd made at the beginning of their relationship—Sherlock nonetheless obeyed, knowing he needed to at least show John that he respected him. Though he'd bolloxed that up a bit that particular afternoon, he would be more than willing to admit.

"I think I'm going to go. I… I'll see you later, okay?" Without another word, John shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away, not bothering to try and get a taxi. He always had the worst luck with them, and Sherlock was always the one who found their transportation. Instead of wasting his time and making himself look like an idiot, he just kept moving, until he found himself in _The Red Lion_ again, where a little over a week ago they'd celebrated their love.

It took a maximum of twenty minutes for companionship to find him, but the man who'd hunted him down wasn't the one he'd expected. It was Mycroft, instead of Greg, who slid onto a stool beside him, ordering wine instead of beer. That made John chuckle a little bit, but he still didn't initiate conversation. Mycroft would get around to whatever it was he wanted to say in his own time, and trying to rush either Holmes was enough to give a person a major headache.

"Are you okay after earlier, John?" It was so startling for Mycroft to express concern toward him over Sherlock being Sherlock that John nearly chocked on his beer, earning a hesitant pat on the back as he valiantly managed to swallow.

"Sometimes, I really hate it when he opens his mouth. He's so brilliant, but then he'll say something so completely rude or insensitive that I kind of just want to slap him in the face. Repeatedly. He certainly knows how to push my buttons."

Taking a small philosophical sip of his wine, Mycroft studied John for a moment before smiling gently.

"Yes, I quite understand that sentiment. Even when he was younger, his mouth always worked faster than his brain, which is truly saying something. He was much sweeter as a boy, always trying to please those around him, but he often slipped and said things that were… inadvisable, I suppose would be the word, if he was thinking over a problem or dealing with something that was difficult for him. You must truly love him, to put up with him as he is now without ever knowing the boy he used to be."

"I guess so. I never really think about it like that, you know? To me, he's just… Sherlock. He's an asshole most of the time, but even when I really hate him, I still love him. He's the only person I've ever really loved, in that way. The papers must be right; I'm obviously a masochist." John concluded, downing the last of his beer.

Mycroft had to laugh at this, a pleasant sound that reminded John so much of the younger Holmes' laugh that he nearly did a double take. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard Mycroft laugh like that before, but after a moment, he had to laugh, too.

"Perhaps you are correct, John. Sherlock can be quite a trial when he is in one of those kinds of moods. I'm not sure he even realizes it half the time, unless you stand there and tell him. I love him, and have always tried to guide him in the right direction, but you have had far more luck with that than I ever did. His inability to sensor himself properly was one of the reasons he originally turned to the drugs, you know."

Mycroft had never brought up that darkest period of Sherlock's life before, and John had never asked the genius himself about it. All he really knew about those days came from things Greg had said in passing, usually more allusions than actual facts, and John had to admit that he was curious, what had made someone like Sherlock, who had definitely been smart enough to know better, give in to that kind of weakness.

"If you want to know all of the particulars, I would suggest asking Sherlock." Mycroft commented, obviously reading John through deduction, or possibly just experience. "However, I will tell you that Sherlock felt a desperate need to escape because he couldn't hurt anyone, if he wasn't in the right mind to. It was a boy he'd known and liked in uni who got him started on the drugs, as well as finished off his self-esteem, and it was the other boy's cruel rejection that hooked him.

"His recovery was a double-edged blade, for him, because he knew that getting better meant losing the numbing qualities of the substances. They didn't just protect him from hurt, as he saw it, but others who would have received a tongue lashing from him. He was much more… I can't say mellow, precisely, but he was too wrapped up in himself to notice when those around him weren't exactly as he wanted them to be."

John's heart bled a little for everyone who'd been involved in the situation. He was able to easily connect the dots of what Mycroft was trying to say. Sherlock had thought himself unlovable, unless he killed off his personality, and the things that made him special. And Mycroft would have been heartbroken that his little brother was hurting himself like that, in more ways than one, but helpless in a way he rarely was.

"What changed, what made him give it up?" John was glad he had, but he was even more confused as to what had caused his recovery, since Sherlock's behavior toward others had been really bad before John had come into his life.

"I'm not certain which event was the trigger, but two things happened around the time Sherlock decided to quit which seemed to have a great impact on him. The first was when I visited the hospital, where he was detoxing on my tab once again. I thought he was asleep, and I was… breaking down, is probably the most accurate term. I was telling him that I loved him, but he was very hard for me to love when he was hurting himself like that, and that I desperately missed the little brother I'd had before, when he'd simply been himself. I only found out after I was done talking that he was awake, and then because he'd gone entirely too still.

"The week he got out of rehab, instead of slipping his security and finding another drug dealer as was his pattern, he was walking through London in that way he has when he came across a crime scene. Gregory was the DI in charge there, barely days into what was then a new position for him, and was understandably displeased to have a young man with fairly recent track marks running up his arms standing there telling him he was completely wrong about the crime, and that the murderer was the milkman.

"When Gregory found out that Sherlock was, in fact, right, he tracked him down and offered him a job, on the condition that he stayed clean. I think he came to the realization that it was while he was on the drugs, not while he was off them, that he was difficult to love or care about, and that he could at least earn the admiration of his peers, if not necessarily their affection, if he let his mind be what it was always meant to be."

"So you're kind of the ones who cured him of his addiction? You and Greg, I mean." John watched Mycroft and was a little amused when the taller man shrugged gracefully, hand curling around the top of his umbrella as he rose to his feet in one smooth motion.

"I suppose you could say that, but I don't think we really cured him at all. There were still days when he struggled with it, days when I was terrified he'd go back to it, and days when Gregory had to threaten him again. It wasn't until you came into his life that he seemed not just clean, but happy to be so. I have a difficult time expressing my feelings, as you will have figured out by now, and he and my Gregory were not very close, so you were the first real friend he could claim."

John considered that, and found himself smiling a little as he and Mycroft got into the back of one of the government man's many black cars. The doctor, who'd yet to see the same driver twice, thanked Mycroft when they arrived back at Baker Street, and hadn't yet started to climb those seventeen stairs when he heard a melody that was so heartbreakingly sad that it gave him pause pouring through the open upstairs door.

"Sherlock?" He called up softly, and the music cut off with a screech that made him wince. He collected himself and headed straight for their kitchen, wanting a cuppa for the conversation. Out of habit, he made one for Sherlock, who accepted it with wary eyes that had tracked John anxiously from the moment he'd appeared in the doorway.

"Are you still upset with me, John?" Sherlock's voice was so soft John doubted he'd have heard it if there had been any other noise in the flat beside their breathing. As it was, he barely caught the words, since Sherlock was looking at the cup in his hands, rather than up at his fiancée.

Sighing and setting his own tea aside, John moved to sit beside his genius on the sofa and take his hands, after taking Sherlock's tea and placing it on the coffee table. The gesture obviously caught the consulting detective off guard, because he looked up at John with wide, sad eyes. Unable to help himself, John brought their lips together for a chaste kiss, hoping to soothe some of the pain away until his words, and presence, could heal the rest.

"I'm not upset anymore, no. Sometimes, I wish you would try a little harder not to be quite so mean. I know that's a juvenile term, but it applies. Despite all that, I hope you didn't doubt that I'd be coming home tonight, because I do love you, even when you say that sort of thing and hurt me."

Sherlock bit his lip, and John realized he'd feared just that. Pulling him into his arms, partly to comfort and partly for the pleasure of holding him, John tried to figure out what to say. It was true that he couldn't allow Sherlock to lash out at him over something as irrelevant to their relationship as a crime scene, but he also didn't plan to hold a grudge or guilt trip his fiancée, as the younger man had obviously expected.

"You have to understand, baby, that while I would feel incomplete without you, that doesn't mean that I'm always going to be happy with everything that flies out of your mouth. I get where it was coming from earlier—you have to think with your head and not your heart to solve crimes—but you took it too far." Feeling Sherlock tense in his arms, John narrowed his eyes a little. He realized that his consulting detective had been slightly _off_ even before they'd arrived at the crime scene, and figured out that there was a bigger issue brewing.

"Do you want to tell me what was wrong earlier, or are you going to expect me to deduce you to figure it out? I have to warn you, it would take me far longer to figure it out than it would take you to explain."

Slowly, Sherlock turned around, emotions bubbling in his eyes.

"I'm nervous about the wedding." He blurted out, before slapping a hand over his mouth. John's eyes widened, and then he did the most unexpected thing. He started to laugh.

"Is that what this is about? Oh, Sherlock." Pulling him in for another, much deeper kiss, the doctor tangled his fingers in those dark curls, neatly preventing him from escaping. Scowling when John finally pulled away, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest when John's hand moved from his hair to his knee, flexing a little in warning. Sherlock wasn't going anywhere until they had finished their discussion.

"Why don't you tell me what about it exactly is making you nervous, and then we'll address it from there?" The wedding wasn't far off now, just a couple of weeks, and John knew they needed to deal with whatever was bugging his fiancée before they moved on to the next chapter of their lives.

He might have been worried that Sherlock would want to back out from the way he was acting, but he doubted that was it. Sherlock wouldn't have proposed to him unless he'd been damn sure it was what he wanted, and he'd been happier than ever before in the weeks since. It was only that morning that he'd begun to behave strangely.

"I… It's difficult to explain." Sherlock attempted to evade, but John simply held his gaze steadily until the genius sighed, raking a hand through his curls before finally coming out with it. "I suppose I'm just worried that you'll come to regret this. Marriage is a rather permanent thing, after all, not as easy to leave as a dating relationship or a flat share. You could decide you wanted out, after all, and it would be much more complicated if we're legally bound together."

It wasn't often that Sherlock's insecurities surfaced, but when they did so, it was with a vengeance. John wondered how much he'd been worrying about this before his rather hurtful comments had slipped out earlier, and they made much more sense, now. What Sherlock had said, and what he'd meant, were two different things. What he'd obviously been thinking was that he didn't understand why John would stay with him, or care as much as he did, or be willing to kill for him, let alone marry him.

"Sherlock, I want us to be together. The night you proposed, I was actually debating when would be a good time to ask Mycroft to get me away for an hour or two to help me pick out a ring to propose to _you_ with. I want us to be tied together, in every possible way. I love you, and I don't plan to stop anytime soon. Sure, I know who you are, and that you won't always be the most considerate or romantic husband in the world, but it's you I've fallen in love with, when I never loved anyone else, and never _plan_ to love anyone else. What we have isn't always easy, but I have no doubt that it's true love, if only because no one else could make me as happy or hurt me as badly as you. And more often than not, what I feel is happiness. So lay your doubts to rest."

Even though John didn't usually like to be deduced, Sherlock read the invitation in his eyes, and hesitantly let himself scan his fiancée. He was surprised and pleased to discover that John had meant every single word he'd said, and that he wasn't, in fact, still irritated about earlier. What he did not see, and had expected to, was any kind of apprehension or doubt about their upcoming nuptials.

"Does this mean that we should go have make-up sex?" Sherlock queried, earning a laugh that drew him in and started him off, too, until John finally got to his feet, pulling Sherlock up with him and flashing a frankly wicked grin at the younger man that sent the most pleasant of shivers traveling up and down his spine.

"That means we should go have lots and lots of make-up sex, until you forget that there is such a thing as doubt, let alone what was going on in your head when you were feeling it. Come on, love. I want to take you to bed, though I can't promise you any sleep tonight."

Sherlock, who would happily never have slept again if it meant spending every moment with John, didn't need to be asked twice, and the two of them proceeded to the bedroom, where John did, slowly, teasingly, indelibly, erase all the fear from Sherlock's heart.


	20. Kiss Me Slowly

**A/N: If you remember from the first story in this little set, Sherlock's parents are extremely dislikable people, and deserve to be hissed at repeatedly. You can, and should, hate them even more for doing what they've done just shortly before this chapter takes place. However, it managed to turn from comfort to nostalgia, to a huge, fluffy love mess. So as we near the end of this, here's my take on "Kiss Me Slowly" by Parachute. Enjoy. **

* * *

It was a change, to see John occupying his usual place by the window. John had been working when Sherlock had gotten the call from his parents. Not wanting to interrupt him—work was important to the doctor, and Sherlock had deduced from the infrequency of his texts that it was a long, challenging day—he'd simply dealt with the matter himself, after sending John a text saying he would be home soon. Now, John turned to look at him, those blue eyes shining from the lights of their city for a moment before he offered a tentative smile.

"Sherlock. Everything okay?" John looked a little nervous, and Sherlock wracked his brain trying to figure out why that might be. When it did occur to him, his eyes narrowed slightly.

"Mycroft called you, I assume?" Sherlock's voice was a little cold, but John didn't flinch away. Instead, he drew closer, the moonlight glinting over his hair through the window, silhouetted for a moment against the city streets before he was standing in front of Sherlock. It was strange, but instead of sympathy or pity in John's eyes, which Sherlock had feared, all he saw was love and understanding.

"Yes. He was concerned. He said that your parents called to inform him that the two of them were splitting up, and requested that he come to meet them, and talk with them about their decision. He declined, but when you texted and let me know you wouldn't be home… I put two and two together."

Sherlock closed his eyes and for a moment, the image of John flashed against his closed eyelids. He let himself say what was on his mind, even though it was painful.

"Part of me always wondered when this day would come. They slept in separate rooms nearly my entire life, certainly as long as I remember, and if they ever had hearts, they broke one another's long ago. Their relationship had long since fallen apart by the time I came into the picture. All they had together was duty, and the fact that it would cause "an inconvenient smear on their reputations" to end their relationship. I just suppose I never imagined they would choose the week before my own wedding to declare the dissolution of theirs."

A gentle hand on his arm made Sherlock open his eyes, and John let his hand slide down to wrap his short, blunt fingers around Sherlock's longer ones. His hands were freezing, and had been ever since he'd gotten the call, and John's hand felt wonderfully warm around his.

"Do you ever wonder, John, why people commit themselves to things and then walk away from them? Do you ever wonder why people lie, to themselves and each other, about how they do and don't feel? What's the point of marrying for honor or duty, if there's no love involved? I thought the whole point of it all was happiness."

"It is, for normal people. It's possible your parents did love one another once, Sherlock. Maybe they just forgot how to love. But you know I'll never let you go, right? I don't know about your parents and their standards, but I feel the same way you do about it. There wouldn't be any point in getting married if I wasn't absolutely sure you're what I want for the rest of my life."

Sherlock softened a little more under the influence of John's soothing doctor tone, and it was enough that John was able to lead him to the downstairs bedroom, helping him out of his jacket with gentle hands, lovingly stroking a hand through his hair once Sherlock was sitting down.

"Stay right here, okay, baby? I'm going to go to the kitchen, make you some tea and something to eat, and then we'll talk about this." John was as good as his word, and was back before Sherlock had time to get himself too worked up again. He had lost most of his affection for his parents long ago, but it still hurt, surprisingly. Maybe it was the truly poor timing of their announcement, or maybe it was the final confirmation that they really weren't capable of loving anyone, even each other. Either way, Sherlock knew it was the last thing he'd wanted to have to put up with this close to the wedding he'd never imagined he would have.

John stroked through his hair carefully and cuddled Sherlock a little while they ate, but knew it was up to his fiancée to speak first. He would need to deal with his issues in his own time, and while John could probably prompt him to begin, he had a feeling the younger man was taking time to put his thoughts in order before voicing them.

Sherlock worked his way through the small meal John had brought him, his favorite kind of sandwich and his tea, and found he was antsy, not quite able to relax even though he knew that home was probably the best place to deal with his emotions.

"Would you like to go on a walk with me, John?" Understanding it was important, the doctor didn't argue, but cleaned up his dishes and followed him willingly. The route Sherlock took was long and winding, something he'd never have been able to do before the consulting detective had cured him of his psychosomatic limp, and he was a little amused to find them standing outside Roland Kerr Further Education College, where they had officially solved their first case. And by solved, John thought fondly, he meant where he'd shot and killed a crazy cab driver for tempting Sherlock to play his game.

"This was where I first realized that you were more than just an ordinary army doctor. I think I started to fall for you a little that day. It was the first time anyone had interested me, in a good way, in anything more than a passing fashion for at least a decade. The fact that you had already killed for me was a strangely encouraging sign; you were the first person who said you liked what you saw and even more than that, you meant it."

"And I mean it still to this day. You are extraordinary, Sherlock, possibly the most admirable person I have ever met, in addition to being one of the most lovable people I've ever had the fortune to know. Maybe I didn't know you as well that day as I do now, but I'm a man in the habit of trusting my instincts. They told me you would change my life, and you definitely have." John was smiling fondly, so Sherlock decided it probably wasn't the right moment to mention all the times when John himself would have refuted that statement.

"I was not at all sure what we were going to be, that day. I only knew that I wanted you by my side, and was amazed when you expressed a willingness to be there. You didn't even attempt to put conditions on it, even when I used all the milk or had eyeballs in the microwave."

John shrugged at that, eyes contemplative as they looked on his fiancée.

"Friendship isn't friendship if it has conditions. Nor is love, for that matter. I couldn't say that I truly did love you if it was based off you doing things specifically so as to make me happy. Love doesn't work like that. When you love someone, you love them as they are. I chose you for who and what you are, not for what you would be in order to keep me around."

"You're so loyal and honest, John. I've always loved that about you. I don't understand how you can be, sometimes. There have been many times where I've abused your good nature, for cases or experiments or even my own bad temper. I've never understood why you stay with me."

"Sherlock, I stay because the good outweighs the bad, to me. And it's not just that you provide me with an adrenaline rush almost daily, or even the fact that life with you is absolutely never boring. It's everything, from the way you move to the way you laugh to the way you sometimes hold your breath when I kiss you, like you're terrified that moving might shatter the moment as if it was a dream. Even when you're a jerk at crime scenes or risk your neck doing something idiotic, I never forget just how lucky I am to have you. Everyone has bad qualities, you know. Some people hide them, but they're there. You are, in addition to being brilliant and beautiful, also one of the most genuine people I've ever met. I would kill for you and die for you a thousand times over because I know you feel the same way about me. That's why I am here, and would never leave you alone."

"I spent so long avoiding this, John. Thinking that love was bad, dark, something that would twist me into something like my parents, something I never wanted to become. I never knew that it could feel like this to love. Yes, it's sometimes terrifying and even painful, but it's also the most wonderful thing I've ever known. Nothing else even comes close."

John smiled, then, the expression radiant as the sun on the dark nighttime street. Sherlock, whose body was turned toward John but whose eyes were focused on the school, watched with fascination as John leaned in and kissed him slowly, the gesture so affectionate Sherlock had to suppress the sudden urge to cry just a little.

"You had to decide that this was really what you wanted, before you committed yourself to it. I get that. You'd spent so long running away from emotion because loving and trusting anyone with your heart again terrified you. But when the time was right, and you were ready, you didn't run away, but toward me. And that tells me everything I need to know, Sherlock. In one week, we are going to be married, and we're going to spend the rest of our lives each privately thinking that we are the luckiest bastards in all of London, possibly in the entire world. And neither of us will be wrong, since we'll be together."

Overflowing with love for the genius who'd loved him against nearly impossible odds, John took his hand and led him home.

At the door to the bedroom he paused, turning to look up at Sherlock. His eyes were clear and bright and surprisingly serious, and Sherlock, understanding that he was meant to be patient and let his doctor speak, stilled and waited.

"There are times when I think my heart's going to just burst open spontaneously with love for you, because I feel sometimes like one human shouldn't be able to love so much all at once. You'll say something sweet or giggle with me at a crime scene, and I'll think it's impossible to love or want you more than I do in that moment, until the next time it happens, when you once again prove that theory wrong. Every day, I find new reasons to love you. We'll never be like your parents, Sherlock. Not only is there too much love between us for that, but there's also too much respect and friendship."

Sherlock, who felt exactly the same way John did, could only nod, the lump in his throat preventing him from finding words. He leaned down and kissed his fiancée, tasting his lips as his hands began to roam, seeking the feel of warm skin to warm the parts of him that still felt chilled from earlier.

If he'd expected a heated confirmation of their bond, the genius had been wrong. Instead, John led him down the path of pleasure with every ounce of finesse he possessed, taking his time so that Sherlock sighed, moaned, and sometimes whimpered with every caress, until he was thrown over the edge of pleasure not once but twice in one night, so absorbed was John in making sure no doubts remained in his mind. It was so much more than making love; it was a seduction, it was a declaration, and most of all, it was a promise, to always feel the same passion and affection they felt for one another in that moment.

Sherlock surprised John halfway through by rolling them so he could ride him, wanting to shower the same level of attention on his compact doctor whose heart was, hands down, the most extraordinary gift he'd ever been given.

He told him so when they had finally collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and hearts and love, and John just laughed a little, pulling him for one more slow, drugging kiss.

"I feel the same way about you, my love. What we have together will never turn into the farce your parents shared. Every beat of my heart is for you, and if you ever doubt that, I want you to remember tonight, and remember that I will happily spend the rest of our years together reminding you in every way possible that I am happy to be here with you, and never plan to quit feeling this way. Yes, there are a lot of things in this life that change, but you're one of my constants. And I will dedicate my life to being one of yours."

There was really nothing more to say, Sherlock surmised, and John was better with flowery words anyway. Instead of trying to come up with ones of equal value, he simply cuddled in and let himself drift off to the soothing sound of John's heartbeat beneath his ear. The display of trust meant every bit as much to John as his words had meant to Sherlock, and it wasn't long before the doctor fell asleep too, excited because whatever the future held, they would face it together.


	21. By Your Side

**A/N: We have finally reached the final chapter. I wanted to give this story as many chapters as I gave "A Different Kind of Fall," so they would be balanced out, but since chapter 22 was mainly an epilogue, and my way of bridging from that story to this one, I have decided that this should be the end, because it fits (wonderfully, I think). If you like my work though, and there was something you wanted to see that I haven't written yet, feel free to tell me about it and if it's something I think I can do, I'll write you a story. Thank you for reading, and I hope very much that you have enjoyed going through this with me. Enjoy the final chapter, and have a lovely day. :)**

**~Wings**

* * *

John and Sherlock helped one another dress, instead of asking for the assistance of their Best Man, Greg and Mycroft respectively. The doctor wore a pristine white suit with a blue tie that matched the band around his top hat, and the consulting detective dressed in a black suit with a silver tie, forgoing a hat entirely.

"Are you ready for this, Sher? After this, everything changes a little. You won't often be able to get away with flirting with our suspects or witnesses, now." John was mostly teasing his fiancée, but there was a vein of seriousness in his voice, and Sherlock knew him well enough to understand it. He wanted to make sure there wasn't a shadow of a doubt in either of their minds that they were doing the right thing, and that it wouldn't compromise the Work.

That, Sherlock knew, was just as important to John as it was to Sherlock. Not only did he need the adrenaline, but he also liked feeling useful. It gave him a double fix to that particular need, because not only was he helping Sherlock, he was also helping future victims and the families of those who had fallen prey to criminals. The last thing either of them wanted was for Sherlock to come to resent John for making it impossible to conduct himself in his usual manner, but what the tall man knew that the shorter didn't was that it was impossible.

"John," he said, taking the other gently by the shoulders, "there is nowhere in this world I would rather be than by your side. Even if it means I have to come up with a different way to get information or coax a criminal into a confession, I would rather pledge myself to you now than spend the rest of my life wishing I had. This is just our way of telling the rest of the world what we already know—we're meant to be together. I haven't needed to flirt with anyone for the Work since I returned home, and that's not because it couldn't have worked, but because I've found ways around it. I always will, if it means getting to claim you as mine in every way. It actually adds to the challenge of it all, if you think about it."

Because Sherlock was so earnest, John couldn't help reaching up to tangle his fingers in that dark, curly hair to pull him down for a kiss. Things were actually starting to get a little heated when a discreet knock at the door signaled the arrival of Mycroft and Greg, who both had slightly devious smiles on their faces when they walked in. They definitely knew what the soon-to-be-married couple had been up to.

"I do hate to interrupt, but it would be a shame if you were to miss your own wedding, don't you think?" Mycroft's voice was gently teasing, and Sherlock laughed instead of snapping at him. The brothers had come a long way and John and Greg shared a glance. Somehow, through all of what the four of them had been through, the Holmes brothers had once again found a way to truly be family. It was a beautiful thing to witness, and even more so when they considered everything that had happened to lead them here.

"Let's go, then." John said, taking the opportunity to glance in the mirror one last time. He looked, he decided, as good as he was ever going to look. He wasn't a Greek god carved in marble like his fiancée, but he wouldn't be put to shame, either.

The four of them exited the room and headed downstairs, then out to the grounds where the wedding was being held since it was summer. It was there, under a trellis of flowering vines, that John and Sherlock took their vows.

Both a little teary-eyed when it came their time to say "I do," they didn't break eye contact the entire ceremony. When they were told by Anthea, who'd once again officiated as a favor to Mycroft, that they could kiss, no one was sure who went for who first, only that their entire audience found it adorable that they were both so eager.

They managed to keep it PG13 for John's younger relatives, many of whom had driven out to see him marry despite the fact that he wasn't close with more than a couple, and ran down the aisle together in a hail of rice thrown by enthusiastic guests.

John wasn't at all surprised that Sherlock hadn't invited many people for himself, but he was a little shocked to see a woman who bore a strong resemblance to his new husband approaching them just before the reception started.

"Sherlock, it's good to see you. And it's lovely to meet you as well, John." The woman extended a long, slim hand toward him and he took it, quickly glancing over at the man he'd married. Sherlock's expression wasn't angry, but a little confused, so he decided it was safe.

"Aunt Lily. It's been a number of years." His tone was reserved, but he didn't seem to dislike the woman. When Mycroft and Greg walked up, she shook hands with Greg as well, keeping one eye fixed on the Holmes boys, who shared a glance that seemed to convey an entire conversation.

"It is lovely to see you, Aunt Lily, but I must ask what you are doing here." It was Mycroft who'd been elected to speak, as the most polite and best in social settings, while Sherlock took a step back and reached for John's hand. Understanding that he needed a little bit of silent support, the doctor twined their fingers together, squeezing gently.

"Well, as the two of you are unlikely to remember, your mother had me tossed out of the house for daring to question her mothering practices. Our own family wasn't so cold or unaffectionate to us, and I thought she was making a mistake in the way she raised you. I was not invited back after that, which is why you saw me only occasionally in your youth. I was a little cautious to approach you, since I knew you were both still in contact with your parents, but at a recent family gathering it came to my attention that you had both put your parents in their places, and rightfully so. I came to tell you both that I'm proud of you."

Beaming, the woman kissed each brother on the cheek before stepping back.

"I didn't want to crash your wedding, but I wasn't sure how to get in touch with the two of you otherwise. It is my hope that at some point, you might like to get to know me a little better. I'm quite the opposite of Violet, you see. We never got along as children, and it occurred to me that you two might like having a little bit of family as much as I would. Either way, I've left my number with your assistant, Mycroft, so do give me a ring if either of you are interested in getting to know me. I'll leave you to your festivities, now."

The woman swept away with all the grace John had come to associate with the Holmes family, and Sherlock blinked, looking a little flummoxed.

"I think that was her way of trying to say congratulations for being your own person and not letting your parents ruin you." John commented, and Sherlock nodded, his eyes unfocused for a second before snapping to John's face, clearly deciding to deal with that puzzle later.

"It's about time for our speeches, I think." Leading them through the crowd, Sherlock took his seat at the bridal table and waited for everyone to settle. Once they had, he stood and clinked a fork against his wine glass, calling them all to order. The he nodded to Mycroft to begin and took his seat once more.

"Well, as anyone who knows Sherlock at all well knows, we didn't always have the best relationship. As children, we were inseparable, but there were a great many years when our difficult childhoods made us… mistrusting of others. I believe we only started to overcome our issues, and grow close once again, when John came into Sherlock's life. He truly changed things for my little brother, in a thousand little ways and one significant one—no matter how many times Sherlock insisted he was unlovable, John was always there in his quiet, no-nonsense way declaring otherwise in both words and actions.

"Their relationship was not always romantic, but always had the potential to be, and I have never seen two people more lost as when they were separated because of Moriarty. I had always hoped that they would find happiness with one another, and when Sherlock returned, they both had so many things to work through that I despaired of them ever finding their way to one another. Now, they have, and I'm pleased to welcome John into the family, as well as thank him from the bottom of my heart for helping my brother come to the conclusion that I am not his arch-enemy, but simply his brother. Congratulations, both of you."

Mycroft's speech made Mrs. Hudson burst into tears of happiness, and everyone else applauded, some with more vigor than others. It was then Greg's turn, and he looked around at the audience and tugged at his collar a little, smiling at the fact that so many of the people Sherlock and John had helped were part of the crowd.

"I'm going to keep this short and sweet, because I imagine most of you are ready to just start eating already." Laughter met with this comment, and then he began. "Sherlock was not always the easiest little brother in the world to look out for. He was always brilliant, but I always felt that he lacked a reason. Not a reason to solve crimes: No, he did that for a number of reasons, both personal and not so, but a reason to go home at night. He was always driven, but I always felt that if he could find someone who would be his equal on every front, and stand by him through everything, he would become a good man, as well as a great one.

"I never imagined it would be the unassuming army doctor he met through a mutual acquaintance who would become the axis on which his world spins. When I first met John, I instantly thought that he was a good man, the kind from whom Sherlock could learn a lot. I never would have pictured them together, however, at least not until I figured out the lengths to which John was willing to go to keep Sherlock safe, even from the first days, because of the instant connection between the two of them.

"Over time, I was privileged to watch them only grow closer, until we came to this moment today, which was probably inevitable from the night of that incident I don't know anything about. I wish the two of you all the happiness in the world, and know that you will always be there for each other. I'm glad to call the two of you family, and glad that after everything you've faced, you finally get to be together."

The music began to play quietly then, and some people grabbed food while others danced. Sherlock pulled John out onto the dance floor, and they waltzed together, John not minding at all that Sherlock, who was definitely the better dancer, led.

"You know, Mycroft was right, when he said about how totally lost I was without you. I wasn't in a good place while you were gone. I was pretty much everywhere _but_ a good place, truth be told. When you came home, I know I was pretty terrible about it, but I guess I just couldn't believe in the miracle I'd been given. You know me better than I know myself, and after everything, I couldn't truly believe that I could get to keep that happiness."

Sherlock smiled, leaning down a little to brush his lips over John's temple.

"After everything we went through together, John, and everything you got me through, I owed you that miracle. You are my home, and I would have fought my way through anything to be back by your side. I know how you felt when I left you here alone, because I felt the same way. I didn't honestly think you would take me back after everything, but I just always heard you in my head, asking me for one more miracle, and I knew I had to offer it to you, even if you threw it right back in my face.

"I thought all my hopes for a better future had died long ago, but after I started my mission, I realized you _were_ my hope, and that as long as you were around, I could feel complete. That's what all of it was for, all those cold, lonely nights in places I never want you to see or think about. It was to prove to myself that I had the right to say I loved you, and to prove to you that I cared for you just as much as you cared for me, possibly even more, as I thought then."

John shook his head, smiling up at his husband.

"Well, you never have to think that way again, my love. Even when the whole world is going up in flames, and literally everything is wrong, the only place I ever want to be is right here by your side. I love you."

At a loss for words, all Sherlock could do was reciprocate and keep dancing with John, long into the night. Occasionally someone requested a dance with one or the other of them: John's Aunt Bunny, Molly, and a handful of other people all wanted their turn congratulating one or both of them, but by the end of the night, when the last guests had gone home, John and Sherlock found their way up to the roof, joining Greg and Mycroft. The four of them looked up at the sky, and just as they had all settled in, Sherlock let out a cry and pointed upward.

There, hurtling through the sky, was a shooting star, like the ones he and Mycroft had occasionally watched for in their youth.

"Hurry, John, make a wish!" Even though it was superstitious nonsense, Sherlock was caught by the romance of the night, and wasn't at all surprised when his husband leaned his head against his shoulder, smiling.

"I already have everything I want, Sherlock. Right here in this moment, I have everything I've ever dreamed of."

The foursome stayed up and talked for a while, but eventually Sherlock and John headed down to their bedroom to finish out their wedding night in style. It had been the perfect night, and the perfect start to their life together, and neither of them could wait for it to begin, as long as they had each other.


End file.
